


Silent Song

by posingasme



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Past Drug Addiction, Poverty, Prostitution, Singer Castiel, Smoking, Songwriter Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-08-19 00:55:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 26,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8182684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/posingasme/pseuds/posingasme
Summary: Sam adores every word songwriter Castiel Angeles has sung. He might be a little obsessed. But Castiel isn't what anyone thinks he is. Even as his songs have begun gaining popularity in America, back home in Argentina, there is a very powerful man who considers Castiel his possession, and Castiel fears the day his fifteen minutes of fame is up and he must return to what he once was...





	1. Fake

**Author's Note:**

> Please read tags. Thank you.

Sam had fallen in love with words before. It happened from time to time, when he read a beautiful phrase or a searing bit of imagery. Lord Byron was perhaps his first love. Then there was Maya Angelou, and her poem, written for President Clinton’s inauguration, On the Pulse of Morning, which he had devoured back in high school. Why that particular poem had struck him, he couldn't say. But it was glorious. Da Chen had blown him away upon his first reading of Brothers. And then there was the time Jonathan Safran Foer had devastated him with “Sometimes I can feel my bones straining under the weight of all the lives I’m not living.” He had found it hard to breathe for days after that.

He never knew what first consumed him about the musician Castiel. But his words brought others to mind, those of Emily Bronte.

“Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same,” he sighed aloud.

Dean glanced at him. “What?”

Sam didn't even bother scolding Dean about his eating habits. There wasn't much point. “Nothing,” he answered.

But shrewd green eyes watched him, and then Dean was listening to the soft music swirling around them, and finally he was smirking. “That Castiel again? Dude, do you ever listen to anything else?”

“Not lately.”

“You're pitiful.”

“He's an amazing songwriter, Dean! Just listen to his words!”

“I'd rather be listening to some classics.”

Sam shook his head. It was a waste of time to try to get Dean to appreciate art.

“I'm heading home when I'm done here. You need anything? You checked your oil recently?”

“Because I am the tin man.”

Dean's eyes narrowed. “Are you high?”

He shook himself. “What? No. Sorry, I...Yeah, I checked the car’s oil…” He couldn't remember when. It didn't matter anyway. Dean never left without checking it for him.

“I'll check it on my way out. Weirdo.” He popped the last of his breakfast into his mouth and wiped his hands on his jeans.

He hugged his brother, who was clearly itching to get back on the road. A lifetime of relentless movement had made Sam desperate to settle down, but it had made Dean a perpetual vagabond. “Stay safe. I'll miss you.”

Dean grinned at him. “Yes. Yes, you will.”

He laughed at him, and let him go. He used to walk him to the parking lot, but once Dean hit fresh air, his mind was already out on the road. He may as well say his goodbyes inside the loft.

“You don't see the way he says goodbye. The way he lingers at the door. The way he stops and turns to sigh, the way his gaze still paints the floor.”

Sam closed his eyes and listened.

The chorus was in Spanish. He knew what Castiel was singing, but it mattered less than hearing the rhythm of the words. The artistry was in the voice, in the way the words accompanied the melody instead of the other way around.

“He can never say a true goodbye. He’ll always linger at your door. He’ll always stop and turn to sigh. And silent lips cry mi amor.”

It was his favorite line, in all of Castiel's songs. Silent lips cry “my love.” It was an image that broke his heart in the most beautiful way. A man who didn't want to go.

“You know what this song is about, right?”

Sam sighed as his housemate wandered out of her cave. “Go on. Ruin another one for me with your ridiculous theories.”

Charlie shrugged. “It’s not my fault you don’t listen to the lyrics.”

“I listen. I just don’t listen with a warped, twisted soul like you’ve got.”

She seemed to concede the point. “It’s got two meanings.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s a guy who killed his wife. That part is obvious.”

Sam stared at her. “What? No, it isn't!”

“It totally is. The second meaning, though. It was inspired by Doctor Who.”

He put his hands up and turned toward the breakfast dishes. “I’ve heard enough!”

“No, listen. Castiel is a fan of the Doctor. And when Tennant left, he got to improvise that last line-I don’t want to go. So he includes it in the Spanish-”

“He does not!”

“That’s what that line means-”

“But that isn’t why he wrote it!”

Charlie raised an eyebrow. “You’re awfully defensive of your fake boyfriend,” she accused.

“He’s not fake!” Sam slammed his mouth shut when he realized what he had just said. “I mean, he’s-he’s not my boyfriend. I mean…”

She mouthed a “wow” at him, then began to pick at the remains of his breakfast. “Okay, crazy man. You gaming with me and Kevin tonight?”

He shook his head. “No, I’m just going to stay in. Frank weirds me out.”

“Oh, come on. He’s your typical paranoid, socially-inept computer science wizard. He’s not so bad.”

“He’s weird. And I don’t feel like it anyway. I just want to stay home this weekend.”

At last, she sobered. “You okay? Big brother okay?”

“Yeah. No, we’re good. I guess I’m just tired.” And he had about three dozen interviews with Castiel to catch up on. But he didn’t feel like mentioning that.

“Okay,” she relented. “But don’t spend the whole time streaming Castiel Angeles.”

He snorted, even as he felt his face reddening. “What? No.”

Charlie rolled her eyes, and took the last piece of bacon. “You’re a mess. I’m going to get you a poster of him to put over your bed, so you can at least have some company while you’re not going out and getting laid.” She gave him a Vulcan salute and her signature goodbye, “Arrivederci, bitch.”

Sam sighed. By the time he thought of something to say back, the apartment door had closed behind her. Sam loved words, and worshipped wordsmiths. But he wasn’t very articulate himself when he was flustered.

***

“Con mucho gusto,” Castiel mumbled, then hung up the phone. He lay back on his bed with a groan. He smirked up at the ceiling, where a gaudy mirror showed him a man with dark shadows under his eyes. “Exhaustion weighed him down,” he murmured softly, tasting the words, “and it press him into mattress. Is first thing to do so in weeks.” Then he frowned. “Thing? Is exhaustion a thing?” He grabbed a pillow and tossed it across the suite at the couch. “Che! Is exhaustion a noun?”

Virgil turned to glower at him. “No se.”

Castiel lay back again, newly irritated. “No se,” he repeated in a mocking tone. “No se, no se. Raphael don't pay you for your brain, does he?”

“Me pagan para proteger-”

“English, Virgil!” he snapped. “I am needing to practice mine all the time. I can speak, but I need more practice listening. Stop using castellano all the time!”

Loathing filled Virgil’s eyes. “I am paid for protecting you.”

“I don’t need protecting,” he growled.

“You are nearly killed in Buenos Aires. And Panama City. And home in Rosario-”

Castiel scoffed. “Guy toss a bottle on other side of street in Panama City! I am twenty meters away! And he did not even toss at me! How am I almost kill in Panama City?”

“It could be that bottle hit you, and Raphael, he blame me! He say I should keep you inside, jefe.”

“I was having a pitada! I’m not allowed a pucho? I deal with you all day long, seven days, for months, and now also I can’t smoke? Dejá de mandar fruta!”

Virgil’s snarl was practically audible. “Tirama le goma, puto,” he hissed.

Blue eyes flashed with fury. “Tomátela.”

Virgil slammed the door behind him when he stalked out of the suite. Castiel could hear shouting, then the door reopened without even a knock.

He hated that.

“What did you say to Virgil?” Balt demanded immediately.

“I tell to him fuck off.”

Balt was unimpressed. “Told. You told him to fuck off. You need to work on your tenses.”

“Virgil is working on my tension all day!”

The light man frowned at him. “You know,” he said, “I can rarely tell when you're playing on words and when you're simply screwing up English.”

Castiel sighed. “I don't mean to snap at you. I'm tired, Jefecito. I'm so tired I don't want even to write. I never been so tired.”

Balt's gaze seemed to reach into him, to examine his last private thought. “You did the interview with Carla from Latidos Picante?”

“Yes. She call just twenty minutes ago. Same questions as every other. Same answers.”

His manager nodded thoughtfully. “Cas, I wonder if it's time to take a break.”

He blinked. “A...What does that mean?”

“A rest, Castiel. You said you're burning out.”

“I love that phrase,” he interrupted. “Burning out. As if once I was a flame, and now, I flicker and fade to ambers.”

“Rest,” Balt continued. He knew how to handle Castiel's constant tangents. “Now is probably the best time in years, Cas. Take a holiday.”

“I have work to do.”

Balt’s beautiful face softened with affection. “Cassie, you are the hardest working artist I've ever had the pleasure to manage. You do more than any three musicians I know. And your fans adore you for it. But I've never seen you smoke more than you have in the last month, and you never seem to sleep. You're going to lose your voice.”

He scowled. “Maybe I lose my voice. Maybe then I am just for to write, no? Let a better man sing, and let Raphael do all interviews.”

A cloud passed over Balt's eyes. “Raphael...Cassie, Raphael doesn't always have your best interest at heart.”

The snort and scowl couldn't cover his hurt. He hated that too. “Raphael own me. Just as Michael once did. Nothing is change. The song, it remain the same.”

“I'm sorry for that, Cas. I can't do anything about the hold they have over you.”

“Nor should you. I know my place. Michael teach to me years ago. And I know what happen when I step off the line.”

“Out of line,” Balt corrected softly.

“Yes,” Castiel acknowledged. “Once a puto, always. Virgil finally call to me by my true name a moment ago. No more pretending he is here for to protect me. He is here for to watch me. To see that I am not...out of line. I'm no jefe. I'm still whore. Is all I am ever to be. So no holiday. I know my place, and if I don't work, I don't eat.”

Balt's pity made him sick to his stomach. “Cas, you're not that boy anymore. You're a star. You can leave Raphael at any time. I...I'd help you. Any American label would love to have you. You're getting a lot of attention in America. Or let me take you to Europe. Raphael isn't all that's out there.”

“No,” Castiel agreed. “There are Michaels everywhere. And there also is puto everywhere. I cannot take chance another whore can take my place, and I am back where I begin. Thank you, Jefecito. But for now, I play my role. I make Raphael his money. And I return to him when he call. If you want to help me...replace Virgil. Replace, no? I'm so tired. Are my words right, Jefecito?”

The man, his only true friend in the world, nodded once. “Yes. Your words are always right, Cas. Even when you're wrong. I'll see what I can do to get different...security for you while we're in America. Once we're back, though…”

He smiled weakly, and tried to laugh. “Once I'm in Argentina or anywhere south of Mexico, I'm return to Virgil or worse. I know. But if you think I am need a break, please. Give to me a break from him. Tell Raphael I never have give him cause to have me watched. I know to whom I belong. I don't need Virgil here to remind me who I am.” He huffed out the tainted laugh. “Che, I am supposed to being confident and sexy. How I can be this if Virgil remind me day to day that I also am trash?”

Balt's smile was humorless, and he looked sick too. “Your English is terrible when you're tired. I could swear you just called my favorite artist, and the man I love as a brother, trash. Get some sleep, Castiel. I'll speak to you in the morning.”

“At dawn, we turn toward the sun, and we think the Darkness we've outrun.”

“Good night, Cassie.”

“Be well, brother. And...thank you for thinking I can be more than I am.”

Balt licked at his lips, then shook his head. “I'm sorry that you don't know you're more than you think. You'll always have little old me, Cassie, for what that's worth.”

A true smile graced his heart now. “Some days, is worth everything, my brother.”

Long after Balt had slipped from the room, Castiel lay awake, letting tears slide onto his pillowcase. He never truly forgot. But some nights, in these fancy hotel suites, it was hard to pull up the image in his head. He made himself do it. He never wanted there to be a day when he couldn't make it hurt. He couldn't afford to forget, even for a minute, what he came from. Those he answered to would never forget, and they would never hesitate to toss him back into the hell they had found him in. Every day, he could sing and smile and make music, and every night, he could talk to Latino magazines and radio shows, and he could do appearances with telenovela stars, and live a dream. At night, he could write his heart and soul out to play the next day. But he would never forget that he was from the gutter, and could fall back into it at the whim of a powerful master who owned him.

He was a pet on display on good days, when Raphael was pleased. If the boss was displeased, he made it clear that it didn't matter how much Castiel scrubbed, didn't matter that he had his own line of cologne. He smelled like a whore, and that wouldn't change. In a year, the world would forget all about its fascination with the musician Castiel, and he would stumble home, and Raphael would see that he got his money from Castiel in some other way. Nights like this, in clean rooms with good food and smokes and wine...It would be like it had all happened to someone else. Like a movie, or a dream.

Castiel knew his place. Michael had told him, had shown him. And Raphael liked to remind him that there was no place he could go that he couldn't track him down. “How easy do you think life is for a musician missing an ear, Castiel?”

The voice haunted his every nightmare. “Not easy, Jefe.”

“Then how easy do you think life is for a whore missing an ear, Castiel?”

A tremble had undermined his calm. “Not easy, Jefe,” he murmured.

“No? And how easy is life for a scarred whore that owes money to Raphael Suarez, Castiel?”

“Not-not easy, Jefe.”

“You think you're something now? You think they cry out for you, and pay money to hear you. But when they forget you, when you're nothing again, when you're digging in the trash again, and you need a high, who will be the only one who still knows your name?”

“You will, Jefe.”

“It's the way it is meant to be. And it's what I want.” Raphael had touched his hair benevolently. “Let's take a moment to remind you what your throat is for, Castiel. It wasn't made for singing or talking, was it?”

“No, Jefe.”

So he had closed his eyes and dropped to his knees.

Tears trailed down his clean face, reminding him of how dirty he truly was, how filthy he would always be, no matter how much he scrubbed.

Castiel stepped silently from his bed, and out onto the small balcony. He took a cigarette and lighter from the ashtray. With trembling hands, he lit it and breathed deeply. Then he stared out over the city below, and wondered if he dared fly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some loose translations as requested by a few readers:
> 
> Con mucho gusto  
> You're welcome/It's my pleasure
> 
> Che!  
> Sort of like "Hey!"
> 
> No se  
> I don't know
> 
> Jefe/Jefecito  
> Boss/Little Boss
> 
> Pitada/pucho  
> Refers to smoking, having a cigarette 
> 
> Dejá de mandar fruta!  
> Essentially "you've lost your mind"
> 
> Tirama le goma, puto  
> Suck my dick, whore. 
> 
> Tomátela  
> Fuck you. 
> 
> Puto  
> Whore, specifically male


	2. Passim

Sam was researching jobs for the following week, listening to Castiel Angeles purr softly around him, when Dean called.

“What's up?” he asked.

“Sam, I need you to work a job with me.”

His eyebrows shot up. “You what?”

“Sammy, something's come up. I got a job, but I need you to do it with-”

“I don't do that anymore, Dean! You know that! I know the money is probably good, but it isn't worth all the travel and hassle and time from home.”

Dean's voice was firm. “In two years, I've never bothered you, never asked you for anything. I'm asking, Sammy.”

He sighed. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Money's that good, huh? But this is the last time.”

“Sure. Last time.”

They hashed out the details of where they would meet up, and how long the job was meant to take. He spoke to Charlie as soon as she was awake, and promised he would be back in just a few short weeks. She had been surprised, but had nodded. He left her with two checks, for rent and utilities, and when he went to record them into his account, he realized it was just as well that Dean had called him in. He was running low.

And it would be fun to ride with Dean again, to work a job side by side. As long as this was the last time.

Sam was already packing by the time it occurred to him that he hadn't asked who the VIP was the two of them would be providing security for.

***

Castiel was smoking again. He had promised Balt he would decrease his habit, but that was what it was: habit. Just like his old habits from long ago. A cigarette was the only way to push down that craving. It was always there, lingering in his veins, but the pucho helped. He would begin his promise to Balt tomorrow.

The knock on the door was his first clue that he was dealing with an entirely different personality. He smiled. No one in his crew had bothered knocking at his door for a year now. “Please come in,” he called, letting the depth of his voice carry it rather than the volume.

The key card gained his guests access, and they stepped into the room. The fact that they had been given a key card told Castiel who they were, but they introduced themselves anyway.

“Hello, sir. I'm Dean Winchester. This is my brother Sam. We're your new security detail.”

He turned to them with curiosity. Americans. “Is good to know you,” he said quietly.

The taller man stared with a wide open mouth. His brother was smiling up at him. “You're-you're Castiel Angeles!”

He glanced at Dean. “Were you...not expecting me?”

Dean smirked a little, and cleared his throat. “We’re not-”

“Oh my god! I mean, uh...sorry. It's an honor. Really. I've-I've heard a lot about you.”

Castiel watched as a hand was thrust toward him, and he looked back at Dean, who was sighing. The musician smiled. He took Sam's hand warmly in both of his. “I'm glad to know you too, Sam Winchester.”

A small breath came from Sam. But that was all the response he was able to give.

Dean elbowed his brother, making him drop Castiel's hands. “I promise this isn't his first detail. He's just a fan, and I should have told him who we were working for, instead of surprising him.”

Castiel nodded. “Is nice that he even is heard of me.”

Sam made a sound like a tiny whimper now, and looked at Dean.

Castiel also looked to Dean. It was interesting the way the dynamic immediately seemed to work that way. Dean would tell the others what to do.

The older man took a breath. “We’re here to talk preferences. As I understand it, you weren't very pleased with your last service.”

A wry smirk came over him now. “Service,” he spat. “Is what protection is meant to be? I never know.”

An eyebrow peaked, and Dean seemed to be taking mental notes. “Yes, sir. The goal is to ensure that you're safe and comfortable at all times. I've worked for your manager before, for several other artists. I think you'll find us to be more than just bodyguards.” He looked to Sam for confirmation, then rolled his eyes. “We are professionals.”

Sam closed his gaping mouth at the reprimand.

Castiel chuckled. “Please, no sir. I'm Castiel or Cas.”

Dean cleared his throat again.

The taller man startled a little, and hurried to pull a small hardcover notebook and pen from his pocket, and began scribbling.

There was something so endearing the way the man was turning pink and fumbling. Castiel smiled to himself. “Come to the balcony with me so I can smoke.”

They followed him, and he sat at the small table, then realized they were still standing above him, each with hands clasped in front of them.

“Please. Sit.”

They did so, at the chairs opposite his. He offered them cigarettes, but each shook his head.

“My manager tell to me I smoke too much,” he sighed. “But is not any smoking too much?”

Dean smiled back at him. “I think there are degrees of how bad it is for you,” he responded diplomatically.

Castiel laughed. He liked this man. “Spoken as former smoker, no?”

“Guilty,” Dean pled.

“Che, then it will be difficult for you if I smoke?”

The man had an easy laugh. “I wouldn't be able to do this job if I couldn't handle smoke. It isn't a problem, I promise.”

A thought occurred to him then. “But your comfort is important too, no? You are to be with me all day and night for weeks. Is right thing to not tempt you. You have quit how long?”

At last, Dean seemed just as off-balance as his brother. “Uh...uh, I've-I haven't had a cigarette in about three years now.”

Castiel saw the proud smile Sam gave Dean, and his decision was made. He put out his newly lit cigarette in the ashtray. “Then I have quit as well. Make easier for you, make happier for Jefecito, make healthier for me. Win to win to win.”

Dean grinned at him. “You just quit smoking, just now, because it would make this detail easier for me?”

He shrugged. “You do for me. I should do for you. Is better world that way. I am permit to smoke just one after show, for my nerves. Then nothing.” He took a deep breath of fresh air. “My lungs appreciate!”

The men laughed with him, and he liked that.

“You can hear my English is not good. Is far worse when I'm tired, you know.”

“Your English is very good,” Dean argued. “But if you're tired, we can leave you alone till later.”

So this was what a true security service was. Almost as though he were the one in charge. Strange. “No, but thank you. Just know that if I am being difficult to understand, if I confuse my words, it get better another day, when I sleep better. Speaking...it isn't like writing. Writing is easy. Writing can be correct and edit. Speaking does not allow for to polish."

Hazel gray eyes were staring at him with open fascination. At last, the younger man spoke, in his soft voice of awe. “What about speaking in Spanish?”

He glanced at him to find genuine, intelligent interest there. “Spanish? Yes, well, in Argentina, we say we speak castellano. Often words are same for Spanish, but said different. Is where my name comes from. A play from the word castellano, Castille.”

“I didn't know that,” Sam breathed.

“There are certainly many things you don't know of me.” Castiel smiled sadly. “And many you do not want to know.”

“But you've never mentioned your name in any of your interviews.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps I have. I do not recall.”

“You haven't.”

The assuredness of that statement surprised him. “You cannot see and read them all.”

Dean groaned. “Want to bet?” He shook his head. “Sam's a bit obsessive compulsive in his appreciation of good music. And you've been his favorite songwriter for a long time. So I promise he knows plenty. But we aren't here to fanboy. So let's determine some of your preferences regarding your protection.”

Castiel was watching the beautiful man blush beneath his hair. He forced himself to turn to face Dean. “Like what?”

“Your habits. Your pet peeves.”

He blinked. “Please say that again.”

“Habits. Pet peeves.”

A slow smile came over him. “Explain to me what that means. It is a fantastic phrase.”

And so it went. Dean brought them back when they strayed, when Castiel was being eccentric and unfocused, and when Sam was determined to know everything. It was probably the most enjoyable morning Castiel had spent in a very long time.


	3. Protection

As soon as Castiel disappeared into the shower, Sam threw his fist into his brother's arm. Dean returned the measure exactly.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he hissed.

“Can you get your act together, Sammy?” Dean shrieked in a whisper at the same time.

“You couldn't have warned me?”

“I thought you could act like a professional!”

“You-I did! I am! Considering my brother just sprang Latin America’s hottest artist on me, I think I did pretty well!”

“I can call in Victor, you know!”

Sam's eyes narrowed. “You wouldn't dare.”

Dean's arms crossed over his chest, and he met Sam's eyes steadily.

“You should have warned me, but I can do this. I want to do this.”

“Yeah, well, there's times I want to be slapped during sex by a girl wearing a Zorro mask. That don't make it a good idea.”

Sam scowled at him. “I said I can do the job. Look. I got meticulous notes on preferences, and you know I know what to anticipate.”

Dean's face softened. “Yeah. You've been obsessively anticipating him for far longer than is healthy.”

He took a deep breath and sighed it out. “You know...Dean, you know how they say you should never meet your heroes?”

“Because they'll disappoint you. I've seen that happen more than once with the VIPs I worked for.”

“He's exactly as incredible as I hoped.”

His brother chuckled softly. “Don't fall for this guy, Sam. He's our boss.”

He nodded quickly. “No, I know. I do. It's just...nice to know he's a good man.”

“So you forgive me for-”

“Never.”

Dean laughed.

Sam smiled finally. “But thanks for this. I know I said I was out of the business. Thanks for pulling me back in for this.”

The hotel suite door opened without a knock, and the two of them immediately hurried forward to investigate.

Balthazar Chevalier stepped into the room with admirable grace and impeccable style. He raised an eyebrow at them. “I belong here.”

Dean nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said carefully. “But you'd do better to knock or call up. We'd be pretty poor protection if we let just anybody burst in with the excuse that they belong here.”

Sam swallowed. That was Balthazar Chevalier, and even if Dean was absolutely right...that was still Balthazar Chevalier.

But the man laughed in surprise. “I'd forgotten what it was to have professionals on the job instead of thugs. Consider me properly chastised. I'll be knocking from here on.” He winked. “If I forget once or twice, please don't break me.”

There was a bit of relief in Dean's face. “You did hire us for a reason. And while you're the guy that hired us…”

Balthazar lifted his hand to stop him. “You work for Cas. I know. That's as it should be. So do I, though I think he sometimes forgets it.” Then he looked steadily into Dean's eyes. “But do remember that I belong here.”

The brothers exchanged glances and stepped back quickly. “We can wait outside,” Sam put in.

The manager nodded. “Good. But don't. You'll draw attention Cas doesn't like. Unless he says otherwise, make yourselves at home. I'll see that you have a room adjacent to his suite everywhere we go, so that one of you can rest while the other is on duty. You'll both be expected for any movement outside the hotel grounds.”

Sam took notes, but Dean was frowning. “Sir, is there something about this job that we don't know? We can work in the dark, but we operate best when we know what to expect.”

With a short glance at the closed bathroom door, Balthazar gestured to the small couch and coffee table, and they each sat.

Dean was glancing at every part of the room in a very familiar way. Sam smiled to himself. It really was nice to be back on the job with his brother. The gigs he took that didn't require travel were never as interesting, never as much fun as the ones he and Dean had worked together.

They listened to the muffled sound of the shower for a moment before the manager spoke again. “Gentlemen, Castiel Angeles is a genius. He's a hard worker. He's in love with humanity. But more than anything else, he's a survivor. He's got a past, one he's fought very hard to escape. And sometimes...sometimes parts of that past come to haunt him.”

Sam's mind was racing. He knew Castiel had come from deep poverty, and he thought some of his lyrics and moments during interviews pointed to a past relationship with drug use. But he wasn't sure what this man was implying.

“In particular, there are three powerful men who believe Cas owes them something.”

“Money,” Dean clarified.

But the manager shook his head. “No. Loyalty. And in his world, these are very, very dangerous men. Each thinks he has a claim to Castiel. And each is a rival of the others. The music world adores Castiel, loves him, but forgets that he was around long before they knew of him. Three Argentinian businessmen are keeping a very close watch on him.”

“Our watch will be better,” Sam swore.

Balthazar turned to him and smiled wearily. “I hope so. There are things no one knows, wheels that are turning to help free Castiel from their influence. But until then...He needs the three of us to stand between him and any threats.”

“Businessmen,” Dean pressed. “You mean cartel lords.”

Hazel eyes flicked from one to another anxiously.

“Castiel Angeles is not beholden to any such person,” Balthazar said very carefully. “But these businessmen are convinced that he is. He's found himself in the middle of three family clans. And yet all he wants in the world is-”

“To be alone on a ship lost at sea, where no one wants me, and I'm finally free,” Sam breathed. “And no matter the waves washing over my face, in the end, I've at last earned my very own place.”

Balthazar laughed in shock. “You boys did your research! I'm impressed!”

A warmth was coming over him now. “It's from Play Your Role. He released it over two years ago. The first song of his I ever heard.”

“First glimpse of courage from a coward, that song.”

None of them had noticed the shower had stopped, and only Dean jumped to his feet when the figure appeared from it. Balthazar simply sighed.

Sam was stunned into paralysis.

The musician stood, in breath-stealing nakedness, with water still dripping from dark hair to slide down his strong shoulders. He held a blue towel in one hand, but used it to dry, not to cover. He was elegant somehow, delicate in spite of his muscle. He looked at the same time as though he could possibly overpower Sam in a fair fight, and possibly break at the lightest touch from Sam's shaking, clumsy hands.

“Castiel, everything has been prepared. We are ready to move. Can you be ready in twenty-five minutes?” Balthazar said, as if the most beautiful man on the planet were not standing before them, casually naked, tattoos and scars and glory all revealed.

He nodded once. “Of course. You take care of their room, yes, Balt? And anything they might have need?”

Sam couldn't think of anything he might need at the moment, except perhaps some cold water to the face.

“I'll take care of it, Cas,” Balthazar assure him with a fond smile. “You know they work for you. Right?”

Castiel had let his gaze wander out toward the balcony, but now he looked back at his manager. “They work for Raphael. We all do. But make them to be comfortable anyway. They are good men, Jefecito.”

Balthazar nodded. But his smile was sad now. “Eat something, Cas. Please don't forget to eat something. They said you never ordered dinner last night, or breakfast this morning. And how many cigarettes did you have already today?”

The musician turned and winked at Sam, nearly knocking the wind out of him. “I am quit today. I did earlier.”

His manager looked unconvinced. “Right. You quit long enough to take a shower.” He turned to the brothers. “We move in twenty.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Chevalier,” Dean responded.

He wrinkled his nose at that. “Call me Balt. But I do like the sir. Makes me sound like a knight.”

Castiel laughed. “Your name is meaning Knight!”

“And yours means Angel. Neither of us are that, are we? I'll see you in twenty, mon ami.”

“I count in my heart every second,” Castiel promised.

Balt stopped at the door to consider. “Dean? Come with me. I'll introduce you to the crew, so you know who actually does belong.”

Dean looked at his little brother. “Yeah. Yeah, good.” He raised an eyebrow at Sam in warning, and hurried after the manager, closing the door behind them.

Sam turned his back to Castiel immediately. He couldn't help the way his breath was becoming too shallow. He hoped it wasn't noticeable. “Can I...do anything for you, sir?” he asked awkwardly.

“Cas,” came the reminder.

He nodded. “Right. Cas…tiel.” What the hell was wrong with him?

A chuckle tickled his ears. “Is fine to call me Cas. I promise. So. You listen to my songs once or twice?”

It was said in a mildly teasing tone, and he couldn't help glancing back. He was both sorely disappointed and hugely relieved to find that Castiel had donned a white robe. “I have every song you've ever released memorized,” he admitted.

“Better than I, no doubt.”

Without Dean there to growl at him or stamp on his foot, he couldn't help himself. “I'm fascinated by that, actually. You seem to put pieces of your soul into every line of music, but do the songs still hold any meaning for you once they've been out there?”

Castiel was tossing items into a suitcase, seemingly at random. “My songs...They are like my children.” He laughed suddenly. “No, che, they are like puppies. I coax them into world, nurse them of bottle, name them, train them. Then I release into world each puppy I love so dear, and is up to her to live life I breathe and cuddle into it. Some are lovely white mastiff dog, proud and strong. Others…” He shrugged. “Others are hound, small and noisy but okay to love. And some are disaster. Is there a puppy that is disaster puppy? My metaphor is fall apart.”

Sam stared in curiosity. “There's a Yorkie,” he blurted out. “I mean, I like them okay, but my brother hates them.”

Castiel pulled a phone from his robe pocket. “Yorker? As a New Yorker puppy? I don't know this dog.” He tapped on his screen until at last his face lit up. “Yorkshire! No! Is not disaster puppy! Look at her, Sam!” He pushed the phone at him. “Adorable!”

There would never be a day when he couldn't remember the exact moment he had fallen in love with Castiel, the man, instead of Castiel, the musician.


	4. Respect

He dressed in jeans and a soft blue v-neck sweater. It was cold so far north. He wondered if he would ever get used to it. He smiled at this handsome new bodyguard. “You always live near here?”

“In-in Boston? No. I-My brother and me, we are from Kansas.”

Castiel frowned a little as he scanned his memory. “Kansas.”

Sam gave him a soft chuckle. “It's near Texas.”

His eyes lit up then. “Texas! With…” He gestured toward his own head.

The man grinned. “Yeah, Cas. With the cowboy hats.”

Castiel laughed. “I will like to see you in cowboy hat,” he decided. “My country has great number of cowboys. But none so tall and handsome as you.” He watched with a bit of amusement as Sam froze and began to pale. He snorted and went back to tossing things into his bag. “You are wishing I don't say things like that. You know my music, but you don't know I like men? Is dilemma for you now?”

But the man shook his head. “Is no-I mean, no. It's no dilemma. Not-not for me…”

“Hm. No worries, cowboy. You are not my type either. I leave you alone.”

The look on Sam's face was unreadable, but it didn't seem to be relief.

It was a blatant lie, to say that Sam wasn't his type. Had he met him after a show, he would have taken that beautiful body apart in a heartbeat. He wondered what Balthazar was thinking, getting two gorgeous bodyguards for him. As if he didn't have enough distractions.

“Can I help?”

Castiel looked up again. He was tugging on his bag, attempting to get the maldito thing to close. “What?”

Sam's face was heating with pink now, which was attractive but strange. “Your bag. You don't pack your own things often, do you?”

He took a step back, and watched him with interest. “No. Virgil always-Is one of many things I cannot be trust to do myself.” A stinging shame mixed with obstinate resentment in his stomach.

The man nodded with careful neutrality. “So instead of letting you struggle or doing it for you, may I teach you a better way?”

Castiel looked up at the man's face in surprise. A smile crept up on him, and some of his sour emotion settled. “Yes. I like that very much.”

Sam nodded, and his large hands opened the bag back up. He removed the items one at a time with reverence Castiel felt was not warranted. Then he held up a pair of Castiel's jeans. “Look. You'll fit a lot more in here if you roll instead of fold. And if you do it right, you won't have crushed clothes when you get where you're going.”

He nodded. “Okay, cowboy. Show to me how you do.”

So for fifteen minutes, Castiel concentrated on his lesson in packing, as though he were at university. Each item was miraculously made smaller and fitted into the bag’s mysterious compartments properly. Even meticulous Virgil had never taken so much care. Probably because Virgil had never cared. He had done his job, checked over Castiel's belongings before leaving every city, looking for cocaine, for evidence of Castiel's disloyalty to Raphael. But he had never handled Castiel's personal effects with the sensitivity Sam was showing now. It was hypnotic to watch Sam's deft hands make short work of the clothing, then organize toiletries efficiently, and at last take hold of Castiel's private belongings and secure them with genuine respect.

The final items to be stowed away received the most gentle treatment. “This is your songbook,” Sam breathed. “And this? Your father?” When he had gotten a nod from Castiel, he carefully wrapped the journal and the aging photograph together inside a soft tee shirt, and tucked them in with sweet veneration that Virgil had never bestowed on anything in his life.

Castiel would never forget the exact moment he had fallen in love with Sam Winchester.


	5. Reader

The trip to Syracuse took nearly five hours. They left at about noon, piled into vans. The Pasión de Viajar Tour of Castiel Angeles in America was a busy affair. But, unlike some musicians the brothers had worked for, there was a small entourage, and the venues provided most of what was needed for the shows, so there was no props bus. They made excellent time, and Castiel's van stopped at a diner for dinner.

Sam and Dean did an initial sweep of the outside of the diner. They were surprised to be waved in by Castiel. “Sit here,” he said. “Others take their meal to hotel, and Balt is no company. He is to be on his phone and forget I even am here. Come sit to tell me the story of brothers Winchester.”

Dean shrugged and sat across from the musician in his booth. Sam swallowed hard as he realized the only remaining seat was beside Castiel. He quickly grabbed a chair to perch on at the end.

Castiel watched this with some amusement. “Careful, cowboy,” he warned. “Is contagious.”

Both the manager and big brother turned to see Sam's face redden. “What is?” Balt demanded.

“My gay. It seem to give my friend worry. He is right to keep distance. Is very dangerous, no?”

Dean burst into laughter.

Castiel glanced at him in question.

Sam wanted to kick his brother. But instead, he stood on unsteady legs and cleared his throat. “I, um, one of us should...be at the door.”

Unfortunately, he could hear the deep voices just as well standing at the door as he could at the table, but at least he didn't need to look at anyone.

“So, Cas, we should probably clear something up before we get much further into this gig,” Dean was saying.

“What's going on?” Balt wanted to know.

“My kid brother...He's not afraid of your sexuality. He's gay himself, and he's trying to be respectful by keeping his distance. He's a huge fan of yours, has been for years now, and he's just trying to stay professional.”

Castiel's deep voice carried in spite of his low volume. “He did not say!”

“Of course he didn't. It has nothing to do with the job. But just like when I provide protection for a lady, and I keep a respectful distance, he's trying to do right by you. He's here to protect you, not make you uncomfortable.”

Sam closed his eyes.

“And I make him now to be uncomfortable. I apologize. I am defensive. In my home...No es importante. I understand. Sam is good man. You are his good brother. Just as Jefecito is my good brother.”

Balt must have responded, but it was too soft for Sam to hear.

Dean, though, came in loud and clear. “Yeah, I am too. Job’s a good one, and we're meant to work it a few months. I'd rather not start out with misunderstandings.”

“Dean, you and your brother, you are always working together?”

“Not as much as we used to. The guy's the best in the business, though. Nobody I'd rather have at my side if I'm expecting trouble.”

Dean's praise soaked in, and gave Sam the strength to return. He could not meet anyone's eyes, but he sat on his chair and stared hard at the coffee which was being delivered to the table for him.

Castiel touched his wrist, and he startled. The hand quickly fell back to Castiel's lap. “Sam, I have new song. I get bored on drive. You listen and judge my new puppy, to see if she is any good, yes?”

His eyes peeked out from his hair, and he gave a tiny smile. “What type of puppy?” he teased gently. He could feel the other two staring at him, but he didn't care. Castiel Angeles was entrusting him with a new song. Even if it were just a way to make things less awkward, he was grateful nonetheless. Others he had worked for would never have even noticed, let alone cared, that a member of his entourage felt uncomfortable.

The man's quiet laughter filled the empty diner. “That is for you to decide, cowboy. I will show to you in the room. For now, I have earn American cheeseburger, Jefecito.”

Balt shook his head in bewilderment. “Cassie, go easy on those. You'll have yourself an American heart attack! How many of those have you had since we came to the States two weeks ago?”

Castiel winked at Dean, who had ordered the exact same dinner. “No se. I have lost my count. Is in the low hundreds,” he promised.

Dean smirked.

But then Balt narrowed his eyes. “Cas? You haven't stopped us for a cigarette all day.”

“I quit. This morning.”

Sam glanced at Dean, who was chuckling to himself. “I don't remember it being that easy for you,” he remarked.

“It wasn't,” his brother confirmed.

The musician sighed. “Not easy. I nearly am to be sick. But I quit. And no one may ever say I do not keep my good word. Now, my friend. Tell me about brothers Winchester.”

Sam listened to his brother's silky Kansan drawl, relaying stories that made Castiel and Balt laugh and cringe and laugh more. Dean was the talker, at least in this sort of situation. Dean was in his element, beaming charisma from every pore.

It slapped Sam in the face when he realized Castiel was hanging on Dean's every last word. He couldn't help the bitter thought, couldn't help wondering, was Dean more Castiel's type? Sam wasn't, that had been explicitly cleared up. And Sam knew Castiel wasn't Dean's type in the slightest. But simply the idea that the musician he had fallen for was attracted instead to his charismatic, handsome big brother…

He had tried taking notes on what made Dean so popular at every school they had ever been in. He had tried imitating him, but it had been a lost cause. Whatever Dean had that all the girls liked and all the boys admired, Sam just didn't have it. He had his fair share of close friends later in life, but being on the road as their father had provided protection for others had been a lonely way to grow up. Dean had been offended to hear Sam say so once, but Dean couldn't possibly understand. Dean was Dean.

Sam sipped at his coffee, stabbed at his salad with his fork, and said nothing the rest of the evening. No one seemed to notice.

Dean lost the rock-paper-scissors game, so Sam got the first shower and nap back at the hotel. He slept hard, but awoke before his alarm went off four hours later. He pushed himself up, and dressed for duty. He and Dean would wear suits out in public, but their jeans and sports coats were good enough for indoor work. Sam had laundered their suits before passing out, and Dean would iron them before he did. It was fun falling back into old routines. Sam still hated being on the road, but some things were nicely nostalgic. In truth, he loved the job. But he would never do it without his brother.

They passed one another without a word when Sam slipped into the joined room, but he saw Dean's tired smile, and knew there was the same sort of familiar pleasure there. Dean had always wanted Sam to come back to the job. He smacked Sam on the back on his way by, and Sam could hear him sighing happily as he closed the door behind him. Clearly there was nothing to report, not that Sam had expected anything.

He crept about the room, glanced out at the balcony, then sat on the couch with the deck of cards Dean had left for him. He laughed silently. Of course, cards. Dean's habits never changed. He played a few rounds of solitaire, beat himself twice at five card stud, then laughed again, and lay on the couch with his back-lit e-reader.

Paulo Coelho’s _The Alchemist_ was delicious. Sam devoured it in small bites, savored it. He reread passages that gave him goosebumps, and he stopped to sigh when he came to a particularly beautiful phrase.

“Do you know…”

Sam leapt to his feet, alert, with a hand on his weapon.

Castiel smiled at him calmly. “Do you know,” he continued, “that Paulo Coelho writes  _O Alquimista_ in just two week? He say it already is written into his soul.”

His heart was racing, adrenaline pounding through him, but he forced himself to take a breath. “How-how did you know what I'm reading?”

“You mutter to yourself when you read.”

Sam stared at him with horror. “No, I don't!”

The musician was smirking. “When we strive to become better than we are, everything around us becomes better too. Is one of my favorite lines as well.”

His mouth was going dry. “I woke you. I'm so sorry.”

“Awakening to voice of a cowboy worshipping words in way you do...Is how I want to awaken always.”

Sam's lips parted, and his chin lifted. He knew his eyes were narrowing with fear, but he could do nothing about that.

The musician looked up into his eyes for a moment, then dropped his own. “Also I was not asleep. I sleep poorly.” He squinted up at the ceiling. “Badly? I am a bad sleeper. Sleep is bad to me. Am I bad at sleeping, or is sleeping bad to me? Che, is probably my blame. So I sleep badly. Though it seem sleep should be something one can do without practicing to be better, no?”

He felt a smile coming on spite of himself. “I wouldn't know. I sleep like a rock.”

“Which is, I fear, to say you sleep not at all, since rocks, unless I misunderstand them, do not sleep.”

Sam laughed quietly. “That's true.”

“The other phrasing which I disapprove is sleeping as baby. You have ever tried to sleep in same house as baby? They are tiny banshees.”

“I love that you know the word for banshee, but you aren't certain if you sleep badly or if sleep is bad to you.”

Castiel shrugged, and sat on the couch in his robe. He gestured to compel Sam to join him. “Is not vocabulary which I lack, Sam. Is grammar. I cannot always put vocabulary together correctly. Better after good sleep. I need to try harder to sleep before my interviews this week. I am accustomed to do them in castellano.”

Sam perched awkwardly beside him, entirely too aware of how close they were. “Your English is fantastic. And your accent...is breathtaking. Your fans will adore you, even if you stumble over a word or two. They won't be able to help it.”

There came a very slow blink of blue eyes, which hypnotized Sam completely. “You love words, Sam. You can appreciate, then, that I want to get them just right.”

He nodded. He felt as though time were slowing, while he watched those transfixing eyes and tender lips. “Yes. I guess I do,” he sighed.

“Sam? Why you do not write?”

“I-I don't-I can. But I don't like to. I read. Writing doesn't-It's not what I love,” he blurted out.

Castiel's eyes shone with affection. “Do you know, Sam,” he said again, then trailed off.

He found himself holding his breath.

A pink tongue darted out to lick at those lovely lips. “Do you know, cowboy, there are two sides of art?”

“What do you mean?”

Castiel smiled. “You see, cowboy, it is musician and painter and writer who are loved. People tell to us how they love us, how they are so grateful for our art. But that is only one side.”

Sam felt as if somehow they were leaning closer to one another, even though he was quite certain they were not. “Then what is the other?”

“The other, my friend, is more important perhaps, or at least, of the equal importance. The other is the listener. The watcher. The reader. A writer, he bring to life passions from inside him. But the reader take inside him the passions the writer offer. Without reader to receive passion, writer is incomplete. Art is incomplete. To be good writer is difficult, Sam. But, oh…” He took a long breath, eyes slipping closed, then sighed it out. “Oh, to have good reader! To have good listener, good watcher! To make art and know it is taken from soul and given to soul...There is nothing more in world for me than that.”

When Castiel's speech at last released him, Sam seemed to sway back dizzily. “I've never…” he whispered.

“No one does, Sam. No one thinks of this. But I dwell there, always seeking my reader. My listener. Some say they like my music, that my words mean to them something. But I never am sure they have taken the soul I have give to them. You know? I offer to them my spirit. They take, but they do not take in. Do you see the difference, Sam?”

Sam took a desperate, shuddered breath.

“Please tell to me you see difference, Sam. I give from in me. They take, but they do not take into them. I seek one who can complete my art. Only one. Then I will be complete myself.”

The words caught in his throat, and he couldn't speak while Castiel held his gaze so intensely.

Castiel sighed again, this time sadly, and he looked away finally. “I thought...I had hope it would be you, Sam. But perhaps you await a spirit not so broken and tainted as mine to fill your heart. You deserve new, clean soul, not chip and fracture and stain as mine. I hope you find it. I leave you alone now.”

Sam adored words, and idolized wordsmiths. But sometimes, he found himself utterly at a loss when he was flustered.

The musician forced a nod, and stood to abandon the couch.

Sam was often at a loss. Not this time.

“Cas? I want to be your reader.” His breath came shallowly, but his voice was strong. “I've been taking your words into my soul since I first heard them. And now that I've met you...I've been filling my heart with them every time you speak. Please. Reading is what I do. And I want you as my writer.”

Castiel turned back to him, and simply smiled.


	6. Hit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continued warnings for sexual violence, etc.

_Michael grabbed him by the hair and yanked so that he had no choice but to face him. Angry tears trickled down his bruised cheeks. His blue eyes were full of defiance. But Michael’s wrath was absolute._

_“You've disobeyed me, pig,” he spat in thick castellano. “What makes you think you make any decisions about how you are used and by whom?”_

_“Kill me,” Castiel snapped. “You always say you'll kill me. So do it. I'm done anyway. I can't take the burning anymore. Just kill me.” Pride dissipated into oblivion, as the next words clawed out of his mouth without his permission. “Kill me or feed me. Either way, I won't feel anything anymore.” The single most irrational part of wanting to die was the fear that he would never reach another high._

_“You don't work, you don't eat. You know that!” Michael roared. “And I'm not killing you. You stupid pig, on a bad day I make more money with you than with any three others. I'm not killing you. That's ridiculous. I'm going to kill your father.”_

_“No!” Castiel screamed. “Please! Please, Michael!”_

_“You stubborn, filthy whore. If I give you another dose, you'll never even care your father is dead.”_

_“Please!” he sobbed. “Please…”_

“Cas? Cas, it's Sam. Castiel?”

He threw a punch, but it did not connect, and in a moment he was grateful it hadn't, because he could finally figure out who it was. “Sam?” he panted.

“It's me, Cas. Are you all right?”

He squeezed his eyes shut hard, then opened them again. “Sam? Sí. Estoy bién. Estoy bién.” Then he burst into fresh tears and curled into himself.

“Cas? You're going on in Spanish, and it's too fast for me to figure out, except…”

He felt his shame twisting into his chest like a knife. “Except?” he prompted. What had Sam heard? What did he know?

“You kept saying please. Please, Michael, stop. That's...that's all I understood.”

He closed his eyes again. “Yes. I am fine now, Sam. Thank you. No worries. I am fine.”

But Sam was his reader, his listener and watcher, and he was shaking his head when Castiel looked up. “You're not fine, Cas. You're afraid. Why?” He reached out and touched Castiel's cheek with uncertainty. “Can I...Is it all right?”

God, he loved this man. Asking permission to touch a whore. He laughed shakily. “You are determined to protect me, even from myself, cowboy?”

But Sam, that dear man, didn't laugh. “If I have to,” he swore.

He sighed and sat up. His muscles ached from clenching tight against his nightmares, his memories. “I need no protection,” he growled. “I need to forget. Just for a few minutes. I need…” He blinked against his tears. “I need,” he whispered.

Sam's frown was full of empathy. “Drugs. That's what it is? What kind?”

His laugh sounded a little hysterical, even to him. “It does not matter. Anything strong enough to make me forget what I am. To forget, just for a little. Balt used to leave for me pills for pain. But I was too high to do an appearance in Mexico City one day, and he say to me no more. I have not forgotten since.”

“Cas, what is it you need so badly to forget?”

Castiel licked his lips. He didn't have a needle, nor pipe, no row to snort. But he had something else, didn't he? He inched closer to Sam until he could nearly feel his breath. “Sam? Lie with me. Let me make you to feel good. Please.”

Sam frowned. “What? Cas-”

“Please,” he cried desperately. “Please. I need to. There are so many things I can do for you, if you let me.”

But the large man held him at arm’s length. “Cas, no. Who is Michael?”

“He who is like the Lord.”

“What?”

He sighed in misery. “Mi chulo,” he rasped out hoarsely. He didn't know why he was telling Sam this. A moment of severe weakness, he supposed. “He take me from street and...He gave me my high when I needed it. And he paid for my father's medicine. I could find no work in Rosario. I was into the trash for feeding my father. I was not eating at all. My father was dying. Michael came; he save me. He tell me to work for him, and my father will be healthy. I say to him, yes! Yes, Jefe! Any work! I will do.”

He could feel Sam’s frown deepening.

“In that night, he feeds to me my first hit. It destroy me immediately. One hit, then another next dawn, and I am belonging to Michael. I come to him for my hit, he sells me to customer, then my father gets medicine.”

Sam took in a sharp breath through his nose. “Sold you!”

Humiliation ran down his cheeks to drop onto clean white sheets he didn't deserve. “So you see?” He gripped Sam's hand and held it hard against his own chest. “You see that you don't need to ask for touch. It is...what I do. And I need it now. I am too filthy for you, so you don't touch me. Is fine. Just let me touch you?”

Sam's face was burning as surely as Castiel’s veins. “What? No! Cas!” He tore his hand away in horror.

The nightmare was fading from him, the memory sharp but less disorienting. Michael was gone. Michael was gone, and he didn't belong to him anymore. But the hit was also gone, and he needed something in its place. His body remembered its reward for sex. Sex meant relief, praise, and the promise of a new high. His worth was defined by his ability to please. His value extended only until he stopped pleasing. His father lived or died on whether Castiel did as he was told, whether he played his role, and played it well.

“Cas? You said in an interview once that your father was gone.”

He collapsed into his own hands. “I am fail to him. He was so sick, so sick. And I save him again and again, but then Michael-He is arrest. And I need my hits, and my father needs food and medicine. I take a customer with plenty of money, I please him. He keep me. But is too late. I have my high, but in just one week, my father is gone. So I try to get out. I try, but new Jefe, he hears me sing, and makes me to sing for him, and feeds to me hits for pleasing him and his friends. Raphael hears me one day. He pay to have me. He help me to come down, by put me in dark room for days with nothing but water and bread. Sometimes he take me out to use me, then I go in again for days. I don't know how long. But at last I can go without. And for Raphael, I sing. It is a better life, no? I am still to please him, but he gives to me guitar and allows me to learn. He brings books and teachers. Finally, he puts me on stages to bring money to him, and I become a local star, then a regional star, then national, and now...this. And for that, he tells me I must be grateful.”

Sam's hand was in Castiel's hair now, stroking gently through it with comforting warmth. “God, Cas. I had no idea.”

He looked up, through his tears. “So, cowboy,” he sniffed. “You know more than any other ever knows. You run to tell your story to a tabloide, no? Castiel Angeles is no better than a filthy puto.”

“I-I don't know what that word is, but, Cas, I would never betray your trust. I think you know that. You've known me for a weekend, but you also know I've adored you for far, far longer. This is who you are, and so nothing has changed just because I know it now.”

Castiel stared at him. “Are you real, Sam Winchester? Or have I finally had my first good dream since I was a child?”

The man flinched at the words. He wrapped steady arms around his charge, and Castiel couldn't help melting into the embrace. “Cas, you're more than what they made you do, and you're more than what the world thinks you are now. I see it, even if you don't. And I won't let you treat how I feel about you as a way of damaging yourself. I want to hold you and fight off the nightmares with you. I'm not going to do anything more than that. And no matter why you think I don't have to, I will always ask before touching you. Will you let me? Can I hold you so you can sleep?”

He sighed out a shuddered breath. “Who are you, cowboy? And how can you be so good?”

“I'm a man very quickly falling in love with a brilliant man, whose past is full of pain but who is a survivor above all else. And I'm not always good, but I'll always want to be good to you.”

Castiel slept better in those few hours before dawn than he had slept in years.


	7. Little Bird

At dawn, Dean slipped into the room to relieve Sam. He stopped when he saw the two large figures in the bed. Sam was curled around Castiel like a protective barrier against the world, and Castiel looked entirely peaceful. 

Dean sighed. A small smile brightened his face, and he shook his head as he closed the door behind him again. As he climbed back out of his clothes and back into bed, he indulged a little smirk. “That didn't take long,” he yawned to himself, and promptly fell back to sleep. 

***

His partner was stirring in his arms, making Sam smile before he was even awake. The man was warm. His head rested on Sam's arm, body curled inside Sam's, gripping Sam’s hand against his heartbeat. His hair smelled faintly of sweat and soap.

Castiel Angeles. 

Sam's heart began to race as his brain registered who it was he had in his arms. 

Castiel Angeles. 

He froze entirely. 

The man began to snicker. “Hello, Sam,” he said quietly, in that deep voice he had adored for years. 

Sam tried to clear his throat. “Hey, Cas,” he murmured back. 

“You are okay, cowboy?”

He huffed a nervous laugh. “Well, I just woke up and realized I'm in bed with Castiel Angeles, so...yeah. I'm about as good as I ever imagined being.”

Castiel laughed too. He moved like a cat in his arms, and stretched out long and languid. “I'm not accustomed to sleeping with any partners,” he admitted. “Is nice.”

The events of the late night before crept back into Sam's mind, and he pushed himself up onto one elbow. “Are you all right? Did you rest?”

There was a peace on the musician’s face he had never seen before, in all the interviews he had streamed. “I rest,” he sighed happily. “Better than years, I rest.”

Sam's heart filled with pleasure, and he closed his eyes to bask in it. 

Then Castiel was moving, so he did too. “No, you wait. I brush my teeth to come back.”

He snorted. “What makes you think I don't need to brush my teeth?”

Castiel smirked at him. “You probably are too perfect to need common things like that. But I will give to you the bathroom for a turn. I am first because I am less perfect.”

Sam didn't even want to argue with that. He lay his head back on his hands and closed his eyes again while he waited. “Castiel Angeles,” he breathed happily. 

A few minutes later, Castiel reemerged, and he took his turn in the bathroom. He had pulled off his shoes and suit jacket before climbing into bed. There wasn't much point in putting it on now. Castiel, for all his casual nudity back in Boston, had worn flannel pajama pants and a tee shirt to bed. After all, Syracuse was cold. 

There wasn't time to feel awkward before Castiel was reaching for him and pulling him back into bed. He smiled, and indulged in the embrace. “You'd probably like Kansas better,” he murmured as he held the man against him, combing his long fingers through dark hair lovingly. “Not as cold as this.”

“Hm,” Castiel purred. “I am warm enough with you here, cowboy.”

He closed his eyes. “Dean is going to be so pissed.”

“Was he drinking?” Castiel asked in surprise. 

Sam frowned. “What? Oh, no, I mean...angry. He won't like that I've been so unprofessional on this job. I've never ended up in the bed of the boss before.”

He received a snort. “Is scandalous. You must tell your story on television, and write a book. Is American way, no?”

“I'll settle for just pissing off Dean.”

“Sad. Free for publicity, you know. Never bad to be in headlines.”

Sam could hear that Castiel was mastering his English better this morning. He wondered how long it had been since he had gotten good sleep. He squeezed him tighter. “I don't care what anyone thinks, even Dean. I'm holding a good man, and I'm happy.”

There was silence, then a jagged intake of breath. “I am not a good man, Sam. Some days I am even less than a man at all.”

“Cas, that's not-”

The man shook his head. “Is true. I am selfish. I take what I do not earn, from you, from everyone.”

Sam shook his head. “I don't understand.”

Castiel sighed. “Good. Because I continue to take from you until you realize I should not. Because I am lonely as well as selfish, and because you feel so good.”

He didn't know what to say to that, so he said nothing, and just pressed Castiel's long body against his own with fierce protectiveness. 

After a long silence, Castiel spoke again. “Sam?”

“Yes, Castiel.”

He took a deep breath. “Thank you for not letting me touch you in the night. I want to. Very much. But last night...last night, I try to make you use me. Like they did. I try to be to you what they made me be. If ever I am that to you...It cannot be undone. You know?”

It was breaking his heart to hear these words. He closed his eyes and dipped his face down into the dark hair. “Cas, you will never be to me what they think you were. And you will never do to me what they made you do. If ever you want to go there, you'll be my lover, and we will be making love. And-and if you never want to go there...you'll still be my lover, and we will still make love, without the sex. You're safe, Cas. It's my job to make you safe.”

Tears trickled down Castiel's cheeks and onto Sam's arm. “Careful, cowboy,” he hissed. “You make me love you.”

Sam smiled. “You never showed me your song.”

“Did I not? I've written two more in my head since that one.” He began to whisper in his native language, a soft, sensuous melody in a voice that wasn't quite singing, and though Sam could not understand the words, his heart leaned into the rhythm, and took it directly into his soul for safekeeping. Then Castiel turned to him. “I have the music in my mind. I must work out the rough edges, as Balt say.”

“It sounds amazing to me. Tell me about it.”

The blue eyes looked at something far away. “Is a bird. Broke his wing falling from his nest. Broken all his life. Force to crawl when his heart know he should be flying. Then someone come and hold him up in kindness. He know it is not for long, but for a moment, he is off the ground again, and he is what he know he can be. For a moment.”

Sam listened to the story with such compassion that he had trouble taking a breath. He sighed. “I hope the bird won't give up.”

“I hope the friend will not leave him to fall again, alone.”

“I think I love you, Cas. Could I...kiss you?”

Castiel smiled. “Please do.”


	8. Stuck

After a leisurely brunch, the older brother finally knocked at the door. Sam had planned to pretend nothing was going on, but one glance at Dean's face told Castiel that ship had sailed. He smirked at the look he was giving Sam.

“One day, Dean Winchester, I will write song for you,” he promised. “Ode to the mighty eyebrow of disapproval. You use on Sam every time he breathe.” He hummed in concentration. “Help me think of English rhyme for this. Ah! The angels sing of a self-righteous man, who thinks of himself as greater than Sam,” he sang out. “His mighty brow say he does not approve, but in truth, was Castiel who made a first move.”

At last, Dean began to laugh. “Yeah?” he teased. “Sam was perfectly innocent here, huh?”

“The self-righteous man, he say Sam is to blame, but truth is that Cas stand too close to the flame. Sam is gentleman in every way, but Cas want him from very first day.”

Dean smirked. “The first day wasn't even a week ago.”

Castiel winked at Sam, who was smiling silently from his spot leaning against the wall. “Who need a whole week, to fall for my Sam, when at first look, I think only hot damn.”

Sam began to cackle. “That was terrible.”

“I can save this song, and I know that I can, deflect disapproval of self-righteous man.” Castiel nodded, pleased with his finalé.

The older brother clapped slowly, and shook his head. “So what now? Sam off the job? I call in another guy?”

Castiel laughed. “Yes, and Sam becomes grouper.”

Dean was rolling his eyes. “Hear that, dude? I leave you alone for one night, and you turn into a damn fish.”

“Charlie said she originally thought we were just one guy with a weird nickname, because Jo kept talking about Salmon Dean. I can be a grouper if that's what it takes.”

Green eyes blinked. “Salmon...That's messed up.”

Sam turned to Castiel. “Much as I would enjoy being a groupie, I would rather just stay on the job. You feel okay with me doing that?”

Castiel looked at Dean. “What do you think, Jefe?”

Dean put his hands up. “You're the jefe here, man. Although, jefe or not? You hurt my brother, and I will stab you in the face.”

“Dude, I'm a grown man.”

“You stay out of this,” Dean snapped back.

Sam snorted a laugh.

Castiel smiled. “Dean, is not broken. Let us not fix.”

“I think he just said you're not fired. Did he say you're not fired?”

Sam put his hand on Dean's shoulder. “If he fires me, you'll be the first to know. I promise.”

The older man gave a noisy yawn. “Well, if you're literally going to be sleeping on the job, there's not much point in me being awake now. I'm the one who didn't sleep during my shift last night.”

Castiel snickered. “You know, Virgil used to watch me night and day, and he was only one man.”

“Yeah, well, from what I hear from some of your groupers,” Dean teased, “he sucked. So we're going to do things a little differently, and maybe you won't be replacing us with the same glee Balt says you two felt when kicking Virgil out.”

“I hate Virgil. No one I hate so much as Virgil. Horrible man.”

Sam's hand gently touched his arm.

Dean nodded. “Yeah. Well, like I said, Sammy, you shower and suit up, because you're on duty. I've got a sticky shoe to clean.”

Suddenly, Castiel could feel Sam stiffen beside him. He glanced up at him from where he sat at the small table.

Sam was watching Dean. “Yeah? When did you mess up your shoe?”

“Went for a perimeter jog this morning. Caught it on my way back. Probably no problem. Just want to get it cleaned up. You good?”

The younger brother lifted his eyebrow now, but disapproval wasn't exactly the emotion on his face. “I'm good. I'll be five minutes in the shower, no more.”

Castiel frowned. “Sam, is everything all right?”

“Sure, Cas. Just hang out. I'll be back in seven minutes.”

Dean watched Sam hurry to their room, and then turned to Castiel. “You really made the first move, huh?”

Castiel did not even look away from the door which separated him from his lover. “You are joking, yes? Because there is any way that poor man could have done so himself?”

His bodyguard chuckled.

“No, he was quite a professional. Too much a professional. It took to this morning to let me to kiss him. Like sleeping with an angel.”

“Okay, well, he ain't that. But he's shy and awkward as hell. So keep making first moves. He’ll come around. Poor kid.”

“You are not so angry with him as he expect.”

Dean shrugged, and sat on the couch where he had played cards for hours the night before. “Dude, he's been crazy about you since that first song. I called him in for this job just because it was you. You tell me Virgil was just one guy? That's because this is a one-guy job. I'm taking a bad cut bringing Sam in like this. Balt only wanted one guy. I told him for the same price, plus an extra set of meals, I'd give him two guys. Math worked out just fine for him. I'm essentially working for free cheeseburgers, so my kid brother gets to hang out with his idol.”

Castiel smiled with pleasure at this revelation.

“Don't tell him. He don't need to know. And maybe Balt will remember I did him a solid next time he needs a security detail, and he’ll call me again.”

“I promise he will,” Castiel assured him.

Dean gave a nod. “Also, I meant what I said. In the face.”

“I understand.”

When the door opened again, Castiel let his breath abandon him at the exquisite figure who emerged. Sam was in a crisp suit, with hair drying on its own, fresh and alert. He looked dangerous, intelligent, and quite capable.

Castiel whistled low. “I am in good hands,” he informed Dean. “You go to clean shoes.”

Dean rolled his eyes and straightened the deck of cards. “Keep your phone on you,” he murmured to his brother on his way out.

“You know I will.”

Castiel wondered briefly why Dean would need to contact him about polishing, but then Sam was sitting on his heels beside him, asking permission to kiss him again, and he forgot all about Dean having anything stuck on his shoe.


	9. Hero

John had been the best. He remembered having asked repeatedly why his father never worked for the secret service, like both Henry Winchester and Samuel Campbell had done, one as an investigator, the other as a bodyguard. Most days, John had shrugged and said the money was better in the private sector. But one day, after sharing a six pack between them, the man had turned to him and smiled a little.

"Those folks will get their protection, by guys like your Grandpa Campbell, guys who know their business. And guys like my dad, they're out there slamming down fraud and looking into threats, and we're all damn lucky we got guys like them. But you and me, son, and Sam one day, we protect the rest of them. The ones that need it, and their choices ain't as good. The ones who are gonna put themselves out there for whatever reason, and they need somebody at their backs. And some of them are some spoiled sons of bitches, and those are the ones that pay the bills. But some of them, like the one we just did? That's a lady who just wants to make sure that she makes it home to her husband and kid safe. She didn't have to come all this way to testify in New York about what's going on with corruption and dirty deals in her country, where folks are taking aid money and then selling the medicine those folks need at six hundred percent or more. She knew that'd be dangerous, put her head on a chopping block, make her a target. But she's a doctor, and she cares about her people, and she's a tough lady. Least we can do is give her a week of looking over her shoulder so she don't have to. What happens now, I don't know. But while she was here, doing what her heart told her to do, she was safe, because of you and me. And that's something.”

Dean had never needed to ask again, because he understood. Sometimes there were good people who needed what they did. He hadn't known Castiel Angeles long, but any guy who could give up smoking just to make a job easier for a contract employee was probably a good man. Dean liked him.

So when he located the guy who had been stalking the musician, he slammed him into the concrete wall without bothering with a greeting.

The shock on the man's face faded into loathing, as he stared up into Dean's dark eyes.

“The hell are you doing?” Dean demanded. He used his advantage to relieve the man of his gun. “Who are you?”

He moved forward, but Dean shoved him again, and his head struck the wall hard. He snarled at Dean. “I am Virgil. And I do my job.”

Virgil. Of course. The old bodyguard. Dean glowered at him. “I'm doing your job now. As I understand it, you sucked at it.”

“You know nothing about my job.”

Dean's eyes narrowed. They were behind the hotel, and he already knew there were no cameras there. His .45 was in his hand, and he made sure Virgil could see it. “I know what it ain't. So tell me what you think it is.”

“Raphael give to me a job. That puto may tell me to go. But I work for Raphael Suarez. He tell me when I go. Not little puto.”

“Okay, you crazy son of a bitch. Then tell me about Raphael.”

Virgil laughed, and Dean was beginning to get the disturbing idea that the guy was not afraid of him or his gun. “Señor Suarez is powerful man. He keep many investment. And he want investment watched. Especialmente sus muy queridos. Little whore think he big star because sus rodillas ya no duelen? Raphael will remind.”

A voice from behind a corner several feet away spoke with a fine British lilt. “Raphael never lets him forget for a moment, Virgil. And Raphael would never let his knees heal.” Balt stepped out of hiding with a deep sigh. “Dean, step aside, please.”

He turned to stare at his employer. “Come again?”

“Let him go.”

Dean looked back at Virgil, who smirked at him. “This dick has been following Cas-”

“Since he was asked to leave. Yes. I'm sure he has. He's not under my employ, nor that of Mr. Angeles, unfortunately. He is the personal thug of one Raphael Suarez. And I said let him go.”

It went against every instinct. But Dean's hand tightened in a fist, then dropped from Virgil’s suit. He lowered his weapon. “I won't give him back his gun,” he snapped. “For all we know, he's here to kill Cas. Or you.”

Balt raised an eyebrow, even as he lowered his gaze. “No. No, I'll take his gun. Dean, leave us. I would speak to Virgil alone.” He took the gun with another sigh, then nodded Dean toward the hotel door. “Go. I will be fine.”

Dean couldn't believe what he was hearing. An armed, disgruntled employee came back to stalk Castiel, and Dean was supposed to just walk away from the guy who had fired him? He shook his head. “This is crazy. You know that.”

“I'm well aware,” Balt responded.

There was nothing he could do. He backed away and threw his hands in the air before rounding the corner to disappear. He opened the door with his key card, then let it close loudly, as though he had stormed away. He flattened himself against the wall to listen.

“You'll speak English with me, Virgil.”

Sarcasm dripped like venom from the man's lips. “Oh, for certain, Jefe. You in charge here.”

“Virgil,” Balt said softly, “what does Raphael want from Cas? He's done nothing to earn this ridiculous gesture. He's simply playing shows, to push his album. Raphael should be pleased he's doing so well.”

“Is not about money, Balthazar,” Virgil spat. “You know that. Is about Castiel belong to Señor Suarez. Is about Castiel does not breathe without permission of Señor Suarez. Is about Castiel sing and fuck at command of Señor Suarez. He live at command. He die also at command.”

Dean frowned severely.

“And is that Raphael’s order?” Balt asked in that quiet voice.

There was a grin in Virgil’s voice now. “Not to die, not yet. Only to hurt. To remember that Raphael can reach him anywhere in world. Raphael say the whore think he is too far to feel Jefe’s wrath. I come to make him remember how to beg, and I report to Raphael when is done. Mira, Balthazar? I hurt only. And I don't scar pretty face so he still smile for camera. He beg for mercy of Raphael, I stop. Simple.”

Dean's blood was boiling, and he was about to return when he heard that sad, soft voice again.

“Yes. I'm afraid that makes it all quite simple.”

The gun fired, and Dean flew out from behind the corner. “What the hell?” he shouted.

Balt's face was twisted in pain, but the gun fired again, from his own hand. Virgil's shock ended as he hit the ground hard. Then Balt turned to Dean. “Please. Now would be the time to call for the police, I think,” he wheezed, and dropped to the ground, holding his arm. “He shot me, but I-I wrestled the gun from him and fired in-in self-defense, you see.” Balt slumped against the wall. His blue eyes fluttered closed. “Quite heroic, I would say…”

Dean watched in horror as the man dropped unconscious at his feet. He looked at Virgil, whose glare was just as nasty now as it had been a moment ago, even though his gaze was still and lifeless.

“Crap,” Dean muttered, then he yanked out his phone to call for an ambulance.


	10. Go

Sam's phone buzzed. He held an apologetic finger up for Castiel, and glanced at the message.

“Keep Cas up there. Don't answer phones. Don't open door. Might be awhile.”

He took a breath and tapped back. “You okay?”

The response was immediate, probably because Dean had anticipated the question. “I'm fine. Just wait to hear. Delete all messages.”

“Sam? Is something wrong?”

He frowned down at his phone. “I don't...Uh, yeah. At least...something isn't right.”

Castiel licked his lips and smiled, though a twinge of fear sparked in his eyes. “Is your brother okay?”

“Yes. He's okay.”

“Then is all fine. All will be fine. Balt will be here soon. Why you are thinking something is not right?”

“Because my brother's putting us on lockdown.”

Castiel nodded. He had dressed in khakis and a blue silk shirt as he prepared to meet a stage manager to tie up loose ends before his show the next evening. Sam could see that he was breathing shallowly. “I see. Is not necessary, Sam.”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “Dean thinks it is. He's out looking for someone who's been following you.”

Blue eyes closed. “Is fine. Is only Raphael send to me a message. I hoped it would take longer to deliver, but is here.”

“Cas, what are you talking about? You need to talk to me.”

He took a deep breath, then laughed it out a bit hysterically. “Sam, forgive me. A cigarette is maybe needed. Just one.”

Sam leapt to his feet and followed Castiel out onto the balcony to watch him light a cigarette with trembling hands. “Cas?”

“Raphael owns me, Sam. He want me to remember. He call today, and leave message that he is not pleased. He is wanting for me to come home, but say he will take my obedience in meantime. Virgil will find me. I know he will. And you and Dean must not interfere.”

Horror crept up Sam's spine. “Wait. You mean you're expecting someone to come find you, maybe hurt you, but you didn't tell me, and now that I know, you don't want me to do anything to protect you? That's my job!”

“If you try to stop him…” Castiel took a long drag on his cigarette, and closed his eyes as he breathed it out. “You cannot try to stop him. What he do to me, you let him do. Promise me.”

Sam stared. “What? No! I'm not letting anyone-”

“Sam!” Castiel snapped. “Better he hurt me than kill you! Be here when he finish, when he leave, and help me then. I need you then. But do not become involve with Virgil. He is doing job Raphael give to him. To remind me I belong to Raphael. He think...he think I forget.”

“Cas-”

“Call to your brother. Tell to him let it go. Virgil is very dangerous man. He teach to me lesson from Raphael, then he go. Is okay. Call to Dean. Please, Sam. Let no one be hurt for me.”

Sam had no intention of letting this man hurt Castiel in any way. But he sighed, and lifted his phone.

“Sam, I can't talk right-”

“Dean, Cas wants us to back off. He says if Virgil-”

“Virgil is dead.”

Sam stopped. Then he frowned. “Is that...a siren? Where are you?”

“Just downstairs. Listen. Virgil’s here, and he shot Balthazar in the arm, but Balthazar got the gun away from him, and shot him.”

“Oh my god.”

Castiel looked up over his cigarette.

“It's a mess. I gotta talk to the cops. You stay up there. But listen. Virgil was pissed because he was fired, and he came back to kill Balt. Okay? That's all there is to the story. You got me?”

“Yeah, I guess-”

“Good. Balthazar is headed for the ER, and I got two of the crew going with him-probably gonna be fine, and the publicist is handling things. Just keep Cas safe till I get back.”

“Can I…”

“Tell him whatever you want. Just don't let him leave. We don't know if Virgil was alone, or if Balt's going to be charged or what. Gotta go.”

Sam breathed for a moment before turning back to Castiel.

“Sam?”

He cleared his throat. “Cas, Virgil's dead.”

Castiel closed his eyes. “Dios mío.”

“And...and Balthazar’s been shot.”

The eyes flew open again. “No. You are wrong.”

Sam stepped forward, and reached for Castiel, but stopped when the man flinched away from him. “Cas, Dean says he's probably going to be all right.”

“Para esto! No sabes nada!” he shrieked.

His translation was slow, but he thought he understood. “I don't know anything, because you won't tell me!”

Castiel fumbled another cigarette, and it fell to the ground. Frustration dropped him to his knees, but instead of retrieving his lost cigarette, he simply began to weep.

Sam lowered himself to his heels, and carefully reached again, and this time, Castiel let him. From the balcony, he could hear that the sirens had faded off. There was a lot of activity in the halls. But the musician seemed to hear none of it.

At last, Castiel took a jaded breath, and gripped Sam's hand. “I didn't fly in time.”

He frowned.

“I had chances. I should have done it before you came. Never to meet you, is better, you know? Better to fly before knowing my reader is out there.” The sudden calm was disturbing. “Better to never meet you than leave you.”

“Cas, please talk to me. How can Raphael still have any hold on you? He's five thousand miles away!”

“And I am not American!” Castiel snapped. “You cowboys think all is same everywhere. Is not! I am Argentinian! I have nothing Raphael does not allow for me to have! I disobey, and I return to Michael!”

“Michael is in prison-”

“There is always a Michael! I claw for what I am now, to sleep in clean bed and write and sing, to eat as I like. I cannot return to Rosario or Buenos Aires to think any of it is mine! Is not. Raphael has a Virgil everywhere, and I will not go back to that. I fly first.”

Sam tried to meet those frantic eyes. “Cas, when you say fly…”

The musician looked forlornly at the balcony rail. “Fly. Fall. Is same till end.”

A sharp intake of breath defeated any words Sam might have spoken.

“Sam, you think I am weak for this, no? I'm sorry. I am not who you think I am, and I'm sorry for this. Truly. I am not what anyone think. But especially I am not what Michael, Bartholomew and Raphael think. And if Virgil is truly dead, then Raphael will come for me, and I will not let anyone be hurt for me. Balt is hurt for me. No more. I fly, and Raphael has no pet any longer. No more. Please. Let me-Give to me time with my songbook, then I do what is needed. I cannot go with these words in my head. I write them. Is all I need. Is all I ever need.”

Sam stood, and helped him up from the ground to hold him tight in his arms. “I don't think you're weak, Cas. But you're wrong if you think you're alone. I still don't understand what's going on. But I know a little about the law, and I know Raphael can't touch you here. If he tries, I'm within my rights to shoot him, just like Balt shot Virgil when he was threatened.”

Castiel shook his head sadly, then pushed his forehead into Sam's. “Sam, I am here on working visa. Then I am to go home. And home mean Raphael. Nowhere in Argentina, nowhere even in South America, am I free of him. I cannot stay. Balt tried. He refuse to believe I cannot stay in America, or go to Europe with him to stay. He always say he works on something to get me out. But truth is there is nothing. I never mean to go back to home, Sam. It was always to end in America. American cheeseburger, American music, maybe even American cowboy before I go.” Castiel smiled up at him. “Then...then I go. And not to home. To hell. Is better than return to Raphael. And that is my choice. I never am permit to pack my own bag, Sam. Do you think I am give choice in any other way? No. I take choice. Hell is better than Raphael. So I make choice, finally.”

A warmth began to fill Sam's cheeks as a thought occurred to him. “That's not...I mean, yes. And your choice deserves to be respected. But...but, Cas, what if Balthazar is right? What if you had a second option? A-a third option. Not Raphael. Not...not flying. If you stayed here in America, it would be hard for him to reach you. Right?”

“Raphael is crazy. But is not stupid. Now Virgil is dead, Raphael come to America to teach to me I belong to him, to give to me humiliation, so I remember. But he is not having power in America. Not like Argentina, where he can use money and influence to press police and court. He is not known here. No, he would not risk more than hurt me here.” He sighed. “But, Sam, he hurt you, and Dean, and Balt, and anyone else. Virgil, yes, he would kill. Raphael, no. He have too many investment at home to risk. But he will hurt you, and I cannot-”

“Cas, would you be safer in America?”

He shrugged. “Yes, of course. Distance alone make it better. But, Sam-”

Sam's heart was racing, his mind stuttering over every way this could potentially go very wrong. But it felt right. “So-so, Cas, so marry me. Or-or someone. But…” He took a deep breath, and shook his head. “No. Not someone. Me. I'm in love with you. And they can't make you leave if you're married to a citizen. And we can now, even in Kansas, and-and I don't know immigration law, but we’ll find someone who does, and-”

To his shock, Castiel began to laugh.

His face reddened darker, but he pushed on. “If you would be safer-It wouldn't have to be permanent, and if you didn't want-I would never expect you to...I told you, if you didn't want-And I meant it. It isn't necessary…”

Castiel's lips were on his, and his breath stopped completely until they were released again. The musician continued to chuckle as he backed away into the suite.

He was quiet for a time, and Sam found that he couldn't speak. He had laid out his argument. Castiel was smart enough to draw conclusions, to fill in the gaps Sam's awkward speech had left. Sam just had to wait for the verdict.

At last, Castiel sighed. “Americans,” he laughed wearily. “All your tales end with wedding. All problems solved with wedding.”

Sam licked his lips, feeling his heart sinking, but stood firm. “Cas, will you marry me? Please?”

“Cowboy?”

He was trembling now, head to foot.

“When I say I fly, you know I mean fall. I don't deserve you to hold me up forever.”

“I will,” he swore without hesitation. “I will. I've known you a few days, but I've hung on your every word for years. And even before that…” Sam felt tears stinging at his eyes. “Before I first heard you, I looked for you in every word I ever read. I listened for you in every song. You can leave, you can even die, but I'll never give up what you've given me. I don't do anything halfway, Dean's always said. I'm always all in. So either you accept me, and let me keep you safe from what's after you, or I'll spend my life incomplete without you. If you don't want me, fine. I understand. I'll protect you anyway. But if you do want me, Cas, please.”

“You will own me as they did. You are simply kinder.”

Sam flinched violently. “No! No. Cas, never. I think you know that. I'm not asking you to give yourself to me. I'm asking that you let me love you the way you deserve to be loved. The way, frankly, I know you want to be loved. The way any person deserves to be loved. And anytime you want out, you're out. I will never trap you. I will never hurt you. I will always listen to your needs, your opinions, and your choices. And I'll respect them even if I don't feel the same. I can do this, Cas. You don't know me as well as I've gotten to know you, but-but this is who I am.”

The blue eyes lowered. “I don't deserve you to love me, cowboy. At end of day, I sing for supper as Balt say, and, as Michael say, if I do not work, I do not eat. You love my songs, Sam, and I love you for that. But you cannot love me, because I am not for being love. I am for to use. No matter is it Raphael or Bartholomew or Michael or anyone who want my music or body or obedience. Please, Sam. Is too late for me to be anything more than what I always am. Let Raphael come for me. Let him use me, same as before, then he will go, when he certain I remain his. Is better this way. Better to give Raphael what he think I am than disappoint a good man who think I am more.”

Desperation filled Sam's chest. “No! Cas, no. If I can-”

“I think you should go. Now. If you are who you say, if you would do as I ask, do now. Go.”

“Castiel-”

But the blue eyes flashed with defiance. “You say you respect me? Respect this. I will not let Raphael to hurt you. You go. And, Sam, don't come back.”

Tears eased out without any attempt on Sam's part to prevent them. “Don't do this, Cas. Please. I just got here.”

“You should never to come.”

He let his eyes slip closed, flooding his cheeks with his tears. But he nodded. “Yeah. Maybe. But I'm glad I did. Cas, no matter what...I would have held you up forever. Please care for yourself. And...and you have Dean's number. Please. Call me back if...if anyone tries to…” It felt like he was tearing his own heart from his chest. He stumbled toward the door. Dean could pack their things. Sam's hand wavered at the knob, and his gaze painted the floor in misery.

He could feel Castiel watching him.

He lingered at the door. He stopped and turned to sigh. His lips moved, but he had no voice. “My love…”

Castiel smiled sadly. He took a few steps, and reached out for Sam's hand. “Mi amor,” he corrected, and he pulled Sam back to him. “Stay. You win. Stay, and I love you, no matter if I should. Stay to love me, no matter that you should not.”

Sam grabbed hold of Castiel, one hand gripping at the back of his neck in desperation. “I don't want to go,” he hissed.

“Then do not. For we all are to make own choices, of free will, and I choose you, cowboy.”


	11. Surreal

It was a surreal day. 

Castiel had always loved the word surreal. It was such a delicious word. It was on his list of favorite words that kept growing in his mind. English, castellano Spanish and Portuguese, even French, Latin-the language didn't matter. There were so many amazing words out there. Surreal. Incorporeal. Indifference, compassion, zealot, loathe and plenty. Sanctuary, vertigo, thirst. 

This day was definitely surreal. 

He called the American production company and let them handle things regarding the show. They were quite efficient and took care of everything. But not once did they ask if Balt was all right, or say they were sorry it had happened. 

“Show must go on,” Castiel sighed as he hung up the phone. He sat beside Sam, and leaned on him gently. “Is all they worry for. Is show on? Yes. Then it is all fine. Money is to come in, not go out, and nothing else matters. Hearts break but no one care. No one notice.”

“Balt will be all right, Cas. They said he's going to be fine.”

“No use of left arm; that is what I hear. Why is this fine? Is not fine.” He shook his head. He wasn't even able to eat the meal they had ordered. Balt would scold him if he knew. “We make ourselves crazy over this. Talk to me about something.”

Sam took a deep breath, then turned to him. He wrapped an arm around him in that slow way that meant he was checking that Castiel was okay with the intimacy. “Do you watch Doctor Who?”

Castiel blinked up at him. “Who?”

“The Doctor.”

“Doctor who?”

“The-” Sam laughed. “So you don't know about Doctor Who.”

“I know no doctors, Sam. I'm sorry, I do not understand that reference.”

Sam nodded. “Okay. It's a show.”

Castiel's weary eyes lit with interest. “Television?”

“Yeah. I’ll need to tell Charlie she's wrong.”

“Sam, you make no sense. Dr. Charlie is-”

Sam squeezed him with affection. “Charlie isn't the Doctor. She's my housemate.” He stopped as though something occurred to him. “But now that you mention it, she'd probably be exactly what he looks for in a companion. God, Charlie, and her buddy Kevin too, traveling through space and time with the Doctor. Charlie would eat the Master alive.”

Castiel watched him. “You know, cowboy, I am grateful that you are so handsome, so that when you make no sense, I may simply enjoy your face while wait for you to speak one of language I know.”

It was especially enjoyable when the face pinkened like that. “I-I'm not-” Sam sighed in defeat. “I'll introduce you to the Doctor one day. I guarantee Balt's heard of him. He would approve. Very English.”

“Balt is born in France. To Scottish family.”

“Oh.”

He smiled, but there was a rising panic in his chest. “Sam? If he does not recover in full…Balt is only friend I ever have. Yes, he is manager, but more than it, he is my brother. He fight for me. Only times in my life things improve is when Balt fight for me. If fight for me has got my brother killed...I cannot live with it.”

Sam was quiet for a time, then he began rubbing his thumb into Castiel's arm, and the musician let his eyes slip closed. 

He felt like a cat curling into affection after having been kicked too many times. He hated how weak that analogy made him seem, and yet it was such a relief to feel true strength in Sam's touch instead of brutality he had always felt in the past. 

“First of all,” Sam finally said in his soft, quiet tone, “Balt was just winged. If you've got to be shot, where he took it was exactly where you want it. Not saying he's not in a lot of pain, and not saying he's going to be doing any heavy lifting anytime soon. But he's going to be fine. Dean didn't let him lose too much blood, tied him up right away while he called for help. If you're gonna get hurt, having my brother there gives you your best chance. Okay? Nobody dies on my brother's watch.”

Castiel nodded. 

“And secondly? Cas, what wouldn't you do for Balt? Would you take a bullet for him?”

“With no hesitation,” he breathed. 

“So don't deny him the chance-the choice!-to love you like you love him. He's your brother? That makes you his brother. I know there's no amount of pain Dean and I wouldn't take for one another. God help any man who comes looking for me and finds Dean instead. And the Devil can have any man who comes for Dean while I'm still breathing. Balt put himself between a monster and his brother. And that sounds about right to me.”

Tears burned his eyes until he surrendered to them. “Difference, Sam, is you and Dean and Balt are worth the fight. I have nothing to give. I am nothing.”

“You're Castiel Angeles. You're everything.”

He laughed out his sob. “You are delusioned, cowboy. I love that about you.”

“I'm not delusional. I'm loyal. There's a big difference.” 

The day crept on. They remained locked into the suite, as ordered by Dean, and received occasional updates from crew and Dean. It turned out that Sam's instinct was right. Balt would be fine. He would be released in the morning. 

Castiel despised himself for wondering even for an instant what sort of painkiller they would give the man. 

By nightfall-and wasn't that a lovely, ominous, rich word?-he had written two new songs into his book. He could not concentrate well enough to fine tune the music with his guitar, but the lyrics and melody were there. He scratched notes on the side about transitions and implementation, but it wasn't so detailed as he normally wrote. 

He heaved a sigh finally, and Sam looked up at him from his reader. “I should sleep. Balt say to me you must sleep more, Castiel.” He shrugged. “Hard to do if Virgil is standing watch or even sleeping nearby.”

“He can't do that anymore. I'm here now, and you can be comfortable.”

“Sam, you hear all my song, yes?”

“Every one,” he confirmed. 

“You know one says, I never have no chance to cheat?”

Sam flinched. “I've never had the chance to cheat, not with your guard dogs at my feet. Your friends all watch and wait for lies, and you see me only through their eyes.”

The words rushed back into him without mercy. “I'm more loyal than you've ever been, and yet they wait for me to sin. One wrong move means my demise, and you'll send them to peck out my eyes.”

Sam watched him for a moment, then lifted himself to stand by Castiel at the door to the balcony. “I'm jealous.”

Castiel turned to stare. “Por qué?” he demanded. 

“You wrote a song about Virgil. I want a song.”

Astonishment made him burst into laughter, and with it, his tension faded. He put his arms around his protector and kissed him gently. “I give to you best among my puppies, cowboy. I promise.”

Sam nodded. “But I'm taking that one too. Because Virgil didn't deserve even a bitter song. I'm keeping it.”

He sighed happily. He loved how much Sam instinctively understood. “Is yours. All my words, always, is yours. No matter who about.”

He smiled. “They're still your words. I'm just keeping them safe for you. In my soul, remember?”

“Where you always have been, cowboy?” A ridiculous question, so cliche, and yet...

Sam understood. He always understood. “I've been searching for you, angel.”

“I must to go out and pretend all is well. Even as I wait for Raphael's wrath to be mete. Even as I cannot think to look Balt in his eyes. Still I must to go sing and pretend.” He shrugged and stepped back. “Is what I do,” he sighed, shaking himself. “Is what I do, and is what I want. For minutes, I am free. I can be controlling to my own choices. I give to people my song, and I let them love me for it. Is no better life to imagine. But is better now, no? To walk from stage and see my American cowboy wait for me. Never I have that. I have men. But not like my cowboy. I have touch but not love.”

The man was looking into his eyes, and then he was brushing gentle fingertips along Castiel's jaw, soothing every welt and loathsome scar in Castiel's body with his warmth. “Cas, I love you. And everything new I learn about you just makes that stronger. I will always be there waiting for you, if you'll let me.”

Castiel let himself feel the touch, and shivered nearer. He gathered his strength to him as well as he could while Sam was making his heart race. “Sam, you know I have addictions. Drug. Cigarette. But also...I need touch, Sam. I don't know if...Perhaps is because of what Michael do to me. Perhaps not. But I need. And for first time...I need and also I want.”

Sam's handsome face was covered in shifting emotions. “Cas, I want to be what you want, and I want you to take from me what you need. Just help me understand exactly what it is, because I never want to hurt you.”

“I never have make love, Sam. Sex is all I know. You teach to me. Yes?”

Pleasure and sweet affection beamed from Sam’s smile. “Yes,” he breathed.


	12. Angels

Sam remained entirely helpless in the bed. He felt wrung out, and relieved of any tension he had ever felt in his life. If the world were to stop forever, this might be how he wanted to spend eternity. 

His lover was naked on the small couch, picking softly at his guitar, stopping occasionally to scratch in his songbook, and mutter to himself in castellano. 

It made the most beautiful image. “What's it about?”

Castiel did not look up from his work. “Not every song is about something,” he responded absently. 

Sam rolled onto his side and smiled. “But this one is. Are you going to make me wait until the album comes out to translate it?”

A blue gaze scowled at him. “You are impatient, cowboy. Puppy is barely born yet.”

He laughed. 

“Che, fine. You listen and you see why I make you to wait. Words say, in English, free will is length of rope, and God want you to hang yourself on it.”

Sam pushed himself to sit up. “That's terrible!”

“Is better in Spanish.”

He sighed. “No, I mean, it's kind of dark.”

“Have patience. I play to you in English as I can.” The guitar began to sing, and Castiel licked his lips. Between cringing and sighing over notes he regretted, he translated, pausing periodically to test the grammar in his head. It was a long process, but at last he seemed satisfied enough to play it out. 

“Heaven rains down angels,   
And locks them all out tight.   
They wander lost and broken,   
And stare up at an empty night.   
Home is too far,   
And fear is too close to home.   
And so the angels roam. 

Lonely, angry, desperate minds,  
Their grace fading fast.   
Taking comfort in each other’s arms,  
But that can never last.   
Home is too far,  
And shame is too close to home.   
And so the angels roam. 

Going mad seems to be   
The only way to survive.   
God gifted them with free will,   
May as well have been a knife.   
Freedom is just a length of rope  
To hang about their throats.   
So they tighten it and pray   
In ever minor notes.   
Yes, home is far,  
And love is too close to home.   
Among us, the angels roam. 

I loved you with all my soul,  
And you threw my love away.   
I wander lost and broken,  
Growing thinner every day.   
Home is too far,  
And I can never return home.   
And so I will roam.  
Until you open up  
The gates to my home…  
Forever I will roam.”

Sam stared at the musician as he immediately went back to scribbling in his book. “Cas, that's...that's so sad!”

“You want my song, so you have my song.”

“I didn't know you were going to tear my heart out. How do you do that with your voice? It reaches in and just rips it right out.”

Castiel shook his head. “You do that to yourself, Sam. I simply sing the words.”

“You wrote the words.”

“Yes. But nothing can take your heart unless first it gain access to it. You could simply listen without internalize.”

Sam shook his head in awe. “No. No, Cas, that isn't even an option. Not for me. Maybe others can just listen at the surface, but I've never been able to do that. Certainly not with you. Play Your Role is the last time I had any claim to my own heart. It's been at your mercy ever since. Then once I heard that, I bought every song you had ever released, and I've listened to them every day since. You're in my heart, Cas. If you wanted to pull it out, I've got no defense, no resistance at this point.” 

Castiel turned desperate blue eyes on him then. There was a cool, quiet panic there, and the way he narrowed his eyes made him seem a little older. “Sam, you have known me only days, not weeks, not months. Dios mío, cowboy. I never want to see you hurt…”

Sam got the terrible feeling that he wasn't truly a part of the conversation. “Cas?”

“Sam, you tell to me that protection service is not meant for to disrupt privacy.”

He swallowed, and pulled himself out of the bed awkwardly. “You want to be alone. Sure-sure, Cas. Just let me…”

The musician was smiling at him now. “You are most beautiful of men, cowboy. And you don't even seem that you know it.”

Sam wanted to bask in the praise, but it seemed to bounce gently off a layer of skin without soaking in. That's how it generally was for Sam. He internalized and empathized and ached to bursting with the words and feelings of others. But he was somehow guarded against compliments. All it did was make him like the person giving them more, when he suspected perhaps it should make him like himself more. He adored Castiel's kindness, but he shielded himself from it. It had always been this way. Even in his fantasies, no one bothered commenting on him. It made him self-conscious, even in his own mind. It was a sort of pathetic cycle that he hoped was only apparent to him. 

“Sam?” 

He yanked his jeans up while glancing at him. “Yeah?”

The sadness in those eyes nearly overwhelmed him. But Castiel smiled through it. “I am sorry. You deserve better soul than me. You deserve better everything.”

Sam stepped in to close the gap between them. He cupped Castiel's face gently in two large hands and looked in his eyes. “Cas, you've been my mentor and my friend for years. You just didn't know it. I've been your reader and your friend for years. And you just took my breath away on that bed. If you think I'm recovering from this week, ever, you're entirely wrong. No matter what happens, I'm not sorry at all.” He kissed the man's forehead, and stood back. “I'll give you that privacy now. But I'm keeping watch outside that door, and I'm not leaving. So if you want me for any reason, I'll be right outside.”


	13. Dial a Friend

Privacy was the last thing Castiel wanted from Sam. The moment he left, the room grew colder. Castiel donned a robe before picking up his phone.

“Castiel,” the ominously deep voice purred.

Just hearing his name in that tone made him begin to tremble. “Jefe,” he breathed.

The voice of his patron rippled through him like a shiver. “You're calling to tell me something? Perhaps you'd like me to tell Virgil to show mercy?”

Castiel licked his lips. So Raphael didn't know yet. Virgil had not missed his check-in. He took a long breath, and closed his eyes. “Yes, Jefe. Please. I understand what I am to you. I never doubted it. Just give me a little more time.”

“Where is Virgil?”

His heart pounded in his chest, so that he was certain Raphael could hear it five thousand miles away. “I've done something I shouldn't have done,” he said slowly. “It's why I'm calling you. To confess my sins.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I hit Virgil. I'm sorry; I couldn't help it. It was instinctive, and I...I know I'm supposed to let him do his job, but I hit him.”

“You stupid whore!” Raphael spat.

Castiel took in his breath. It was out of character for Raphael to lose his temper that way. That was Michael or Bartholomew’s way. Raphael rarely shouted. “I'm sorry,” he gasped.

“Where is Virgil?”

“He-he stormed away, Jefe, threw his phone at me and slammed the door, and said...I cannot tell you what he said.”

The lethal calm returned to Raphael then, and it sent shudders throughout Castiel's entire body. “You'll tell me now.”

“No, Jefe, please. It will upset you.”

“Castiel, you tell me or I will-”

Charade or not, Castiel truly did not want to hear what Raphael would do to him. He could imagine all too well. “He-he said-God help me, Jefe, he said Bartholomew doesn't pay enough for dealing with Raphael's trash. And this is when he threw the phone and left. I haven't seen him for over an hour, and so I knew I should call you. Jefe, please. Certainly I misunderstood-”

“That disloyal coward! You didn't misunderstand a thing! I knew I couldn't trust that brute! I will come down on Bartholomew and that pathetic operation of his with the wrath of God Himself!”

“No, Jefe! I must have misheard! Virgil was so loyal to you! He would never work for Bartholomew! I-I know he admired him somewhat, respected his strength, but he would never-”

Raphael growled audibly. “You're far too trusting, Castiel! You think the best of everyone! No, Virgil is a traitor. If he shows his cowardly face in Argentina again, I will hang him by his ankles and let every bit of blood pour from his throat.”

Castiel was sweating, his heart pounding, but his voice obeyed him. “I'm so sorry, Raphael. I'm so sorry. I didn't want to upset you.”

“No. You were right to tell me. I suspected the wretched coward all along. It's time my boys and I visited Bartholomew Gonzales, to remind him who is boss in this region.”

“Please be safe, Raphael. Should I...I can return home if you think I can help somehow.”

There was a pause, then a benevolent sigh. “No. Castiel, you've proven yourself today. Virgil will never dare show his face now. And you've proven yourself by calling me when you didn't have to, when you could have kept this information to yourself. You have earned my trust.”

He felt his stomach drop, and he suddenly seemed dizzy. “It's all I've ever sought, Jefe. Your trust.”

“Continue as you planned, Castiel. Balthazar will call me in a few days to update me.”

“Thank you, Jefe.”

“If you do not hear from me, I am busy with teaching lessons among the families, Castiel. Be glad you are not home.”

The moment he hung up, he dialed another number, one he had saved in his phone as Balthazar’s second number. He wiped at his forehead, and sucked in deep breaths.

“Who is this?”

“Bart? It's me. It's Castiel.”

“Well, now! I hadn't expected to hear from my old favorite songbird again, not now that he's a star.”

“Bart, I cannot talk. Raphael will kill me if he learns I've called you.”

“I should think so! He and I aren't friends as we were years back.”

Castiel rolled his eyes, but kept his voice steady. “That's why I'm calling. I needed to warn you. He's moving on you, Bart. Within two days, I should think.”

“Moving on me? On me?” The voice was becoming shrill and hateful. “That son of a bitch thinks he's going to move on me?”

“He's determined to. You know how paranoid he is. He's convinced you're stealing his loyalists.”

Bartholomew laughed bitterly. “Why would I need to? They're flocking to me as they see my profits soaring.”

“Just take care of yourself. I'm certain you already know about his truce with the Romeros.”

The laughter stopped. “The Romeros. Michael Romero? He's in prison.”

“Yes. Would that stop you from business?”

“No,” he admitted. “It wouldn't.”

“I assumed you had heard about the alliance. I guess it's true that whores hear more than the best lawyers.”

Bartholomew gave a sort of snort. “If Suarez is bedding down with Romero, I'm going to need to move. I'll take some preemptive action on both Raphael and Michael. Michael will be more difficult, but guards can be bribed. As for Raphael, he's right to be paranoid. I've got several in his ranks who can take him out at my signal. Castiel, you've done good today, giving me what you know. When the dust settles, I'll reward you for your loyalty.”

“Just try to keep the damage at the top, Bart. That's all I ask. Please. For old times. Do me that favor. Don't let some little whore like me be the one who gets killed.”

“I'll do what I can, Castiel. For old times. Take care of yourself, Cas. If you hear more, call. You were always a favorite around here.”

This time, when he hung up, he couldn't help it. He dropped the phone and slammed onto his knees, clawing at the trash bin by the desk.

“Cas? Cas, are you all right?”

He couldn't respond.

“Cas, I'm coming in!” The door burst open, and Sam rushed in to sit on his heels at his side. “Cas! What is it?”

It was nearly six minutes before he could stop vomiting. His empty stomach grumbled at him angrily. At last, he let himself collapse into Sam's arms, and tears of exhaustion streamed down his cheeks.

“Are you all right?” Sam asked softly.

“I want to be free. Sam, I want only to be free.”

“What did you do, Cas?”

He squeezed his eyes closed tight. “You don't want I should fly,” he sobbed brokenly. “So I do what I must. I cannot let him to hurt you, Sam.”

“Then what…”

“A war, Sam. I have begun a war. And may no man win.”


	14. Little Old Me

Balthazar Chevalier was flirting mercilessly with a nurse who seemed entirely unimpressed with his antics. She rolled her eyes at Dean on her way through the door.

The injured man smiled up at Dean, and gestured to the gifts of flowers and wine surrounding him. “I'm afraid you'll have to pour your own drink if you're joining me. They've told me I'm not to have a drop of wine until I've clotted up properly after the surgery. Or something. I wasn't listening, I'll admit.”

Dean sat in a chair beside the manager’s bed. He put his feet up on the other chair, and crossed his legs at the ankles.

“What?” Balthazar asked suspiciously.

“Hm? Oh, nothing,” he replied. “Just...thought you could answer a quick question.”

“Of course, Dean. How can I help?”

Dean nodded a little, and helped himself to a yellow rose petal. He liked the feel of it, and it gave him something to focus on as he was about to make an accusation of his boss. “So...this was a pretty traumatic experience for you.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“I'm a little confused on a certain point.”

Sharp blue eyes locked onto his in defiance. “Are you?”

“A little. See, there's a minor detail in what happened that seems odd.”

“That being?”

Dean noted the stubbornness in the man's voice, and he smiled. “I disarmed the son of a bitch that shot you. Yet he managed to shoot you with the same gun I pulled off him and handed to you. Strange.”

Balthazar sighed. “Very strange. I'm afraid it's all a bit of a blur.”

“Yeah. Okay.” He stood and moved toward the door, then turned back. “Cas calls you his brother. Ain't nothing I wouldn't do for my brother.”

“Dean?”

He smiled back at him. “Yeah, man.”

“They aren't charging me for killing a man, because it was self-defense. But I'd do it again. Even if it weren't. I just can't let them hurt him again.”

Dean nodded. “I'm sorry anybody had to get hurt. Next time, let a professional defend you, instead of doing it yourself.”

“It had to be me, Dean. I'm the one who fired him. I'm the one he came back to kill. I just thank you for caring for me until the ambulance arrived. Everything else...had to happen in that way.”

He smirked. “Whatever you say, boss. Sucks about your arm. But the ladies will love the scar.”

Balthazar began to laugh, until pain caught up with him, and he winced. “Everyone loves a hero, Dean.”

“Yeah. Especially Cas. Call him and let him know you're okay. He's eating his heart out.”

He stepped out of the door, then paused outside the room to listen.

“Cassie! Hello, darling…Yes, well, rumors of my death were gravely exaggerated...No you can't. Cas, I know you want to come, but you can't. The publicist would have my head if I allowed you to come visit me here...No, it's nothing to do with that. You've been off pills for a long while now. I know you can handle...Cassie, I know you could. I promise it's not about that...Yes, I really am fine...Cassie, if you're going to fall apart on me, you might at least do it in English. I am a bit too woozy for Spanish.”

Dean snickered.

But then Balthazar’s voice turned cold. “Castiel, what did you do?...Dear God, Cas. And he believed you?...Gonzales? You called Gonzales? Raphael will kill you, Cas!...Romero! Cas, what have you done?”

Raphael Suarez, Gonzales, and Romero. Dean's mind sprang back to a few days before, when Castiel had been showering, and Balt was explaining what he could about Castiel's background. Three powerful men, cartel lords or traffickers in all likelihood, each with a claim to Castiel's loyalty.

Dean's eyes narrowed. What was Sam getting into?

“Yes. No, I understand. It's a risk, Castiel, but the one man who could unravel it died by his own gun after shooting me. He's got no identification that would lead him back to Raphael. All the authorities here know is that he is Argentinian, that we had used him for security. If Raphael ever found out what happened, it'll be long after Gonzales and Romero have acted...No, you've done a clever thing here, Castiel. And there might be enough confusion for us to finally slip you out of their hands...Stop. Don't worry about me. I'm Balthazar Chevalier...I'll have one of my contacts send news of the fallout. The press there wouldn't dare cover it properly...This may be your ticket out, Castiel...Yes, or your death sentence, but we’ll be optimistic, shall we?...No, you focus on the show. Just that. You must seem as though you're oblivious to any politics and posturing back home. I'll get Crowley negotiating a contract with an American label immediately...I know you think he's the Devil, but he's the best negotiator I've ever used, and while the rest of us are distracted, he’ll do the job of securing your future and career.”

After another moment spent assuring Castiel that he had done the right thing, Balthazar heaved a sigh. “Dean, you may as well come back in. You've a habit of lurking at doorways.”

He snorted, and stepped back into the room. “Last time I did that, I kept you from bleeding out all over the sidewalk. I think they charge cleanup like that to the room.”

Balthazar smirked. “Come sit again. We've got quite a bit to discuss. For one thing, I know you don't work permanent positions. I've asked you in the past, and you've turned me down. But I'll need you to recommend someone to watch over Castiel long-term. I intend for him to be an American citizen very soon, and I'll need someone who can dedicate himself to his safety.”

Dean smiled to himself. “Yeah, I might know a guy who could commit to that,” he said softly. “Give me a day or two to talk it out with him.”

“Of course.”


	15. The High

Sam was alert during the entire show. He was far too busy watching the crowd and every angle of the stage and exits to actually listen to Castiel's songs.

There were just four dancers, beautiful Latinas. Castiel had rehearsed with them all morning, and Sam had been fascinated by the way Castiel choreographed every move himself, yet listened to input from the dancers as well. He let them be the movement of his song, while he sang. But Sam got the strange feeling that Castiel was acting as a conductor, keeping time and sprouting energy like wings to electrify the others. The lights were flattering, and the costumes were sexy. Dean had greatly appreciated the ladies’ dresses, and Sam had lost his ability to speak when he caught sight of Castiel.

But the show itself was a blur for Sam. He and Dean were constant shadows, flicking their gazes all over the environment, watching every face, sizing up every person there. John’s training was paramount to anything either of them were feeling. Once they were on duty, their focus was unshakable.

They had fallen into their old rhythms, a synchronization that never failed. They communicated with the lifting of an eyebrow, a smirk or a nod. It was like clockwork.

Before he knew it, Sam was loading the client into the van, and Dean was ushering the dancers into theirs. The small team prattled into cellphones and tapped out messages, and then they were off to the hotel again. Dean drove, and Sam sat in the back with the VIP.

Sam turned to find Castiel already watching him. He cleared his throat. “Do you need something?” He went over his checklist in his mind. Castiel's coat was there, because he knew the man would be freezing once the adrenaline died down. There were bottles of water within reach. He had the protein bars Balt had told him to try to push on Castiel whenever possible. What was he forgetting?

“Mi Dios, eres un hombre hermoso. Te quiero. Ahora.”

His eyebrows shot up as he took note of the predatory way Castiel was staring at him. But before he could ask for a translation, his brother barked back at them.

“Hey! No! I'm right fucking here! Right here! No ahora!”

He blinked at Dean, then back at Castiel.

The musician was laughing. “You understand, my friend?”

“I worked for fucking Thaddeus for three months, and his drummer knows zero English, but he can say ‘I want you now’ in fourteen languages. Hands off the kid brother till I don't have to be part of it!”

Sam's face was heating.

Castiel grinned and shrugged at him. “Ahora no,” he sighed. “I am thinking Dean is to protect me. Is clear he is here for to protect you. I apologize.” He took Sam's hand instead, and leaned back in his seat. “Thaddeus?”

“Yeah. Not my favorite gig. He's an asshole. Which I'm usually too professional to say, especially to another client, but I think he'd take it as a compliment.”

“You know, Dean, I quit smoke for you. I don't quit sex.”

“And you know, Cas, you might be my boss, but I'm Sam's. And he's still on duty.”

Sam threw his hands up. “I'm right here too! And I'm not-”

“You are not?” Castiel teased in mock devastation.

At the same time. Dean scoffed, “Yeah, you're not,” in his most sarcastic tone.

He rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. “I'm not speaking to either of you till the hotel,” he decided, which simply elicited a laugh from each of them.

Sam sat back and listened as Castiel burst into breathtakingly manic chatter, in a blend of languages, regarding the show, the audience, the crew, how inspiring Sam's presence was, where they were heading next, shows of the past, how distracting Sam's presence was, life on the road, the challenges of singing in English, the lovely cheeseburgers in America, the wonders of the Food Network, preparations for an upcoming interview, desire for a cigarette, and how difficult he was finding it to not tear into Sam's clothing just then.

To Sam's surprise, and quiet delight, he found the energy transferring to his brother, and soon the two charismatic men whom he adored were bantering seamlessly, as though they had known one another for years.

Castiel smirked at him as they rode the elevator up to their floor. Dean had sighed and mumbled something about not trusting the valet, and had not followed them out of the van. So they were alone at last. Castiel was still keeping his distance, but more like a tiger preparing to spring than a gentleman giving him space. That was all right. Sam had seen the gentleman, and loved him. Now he was ready for the tiger.

Once the door closed behind them, Castiel was on him, purring in Spanish with a hot deep voice at his throat. This was not the rough throw to the bed Sam had expected, not the wild slamming into furniture, then passing out which Sam had unfortunately had to witness from other musicians after a show. Sam had been ready for that.

He was not ready for this.

There was no way to prepare for a Castiel who was flying high on the screams of his fans. He could only hold on for dear life, as Castiel coaxed from his body things he had never felt before. Sure hands and confident mouth, the liquidity of a dancer’s movement over his skin...This was worship. This was complete surrender into the hands of a master who would see his lover sated like never before. Castiel was moving in an excruciatingly slow, tantalizing way, stealing any sense Sam still commanded. And all the while, those blue eyes burned their marks into Sam’s skin, through to his heart. Amongst all the pleasure Castiel reaped, it was becoming nearly painful how much Sam loved him. His heart ached with every syllable the musician uttered in any language, and every touch of his flesh sent him reeling toward forever with this man.

After hours of total capitulation, of becoming Castiel’s opus, at last the artist began to brush gentle fingertips over Sam’s bare chest and arms, to bring him back to reality. He stared up at Castiel with all the adoration in his heart, panting helplessly. “I love you, Cas,” he whispered. It was such an inadequate thing to say. He had once thought those words were everything, and now they seemed like nothing. All his life, he had relished words. Now he found them completely obsolete in the face of his love for Castiel Angeles. Sexual and emotional exhaustion poured from him in tears. “I don’t know how else to...I just love you.” 

Castiel smiled happily, and touched Sam’s cheek. “You weep.”

“I can’t help it. I’m sorry.” He had no voice remaining, nor any resistance to his overwhelming passions.

“I’ve been with many men, Sam Winchester. More than…” He lowered his eyes at last. “More than I ever want you to know.” He closed his eyes tight, as if he were blocking out memories.

It broke Sam’s heart. “Cas,” he wheezed.

But his lover smiled again, and shook his head, and then those eyes were on him again. “You are only man I want twice. And I want forever. No matter of what happens, Sam. I marry you. I am yours. I always am yours, all my life. Till you want me no more.”

It didn’t register in his mind. It was as though Castiel was speaking in his native language instead. “Want you no...Cas, I’ll always want you!”

The smile was hollow now. Castiel kissed away the tears and nodded indulgently. “Okay, cowboy. Whatever you say. You need sleep now.”

Sam tried hard to open his eyes after Castiel kissed them closed. But there was nothing left to draw upon for strength. “I love you,” he murmured again in defeat. “I’ll always love you.”

Castiel stroked his hair from his forehead in a soothing gesture until the world faded from Sam’s mind. “Okay, cowboy,” he sighed. “Sleep, and dream of someone with clean soul like yours. Someone who deserves you. I never will. But I am selfish, and I let you think I do, if mean you keep me a little longer.”

The words were in English. He felt sure they were. But they made no sense, and so Sam gave in when sleep took him over.


	16. Real

Castiel could still hear the crowd in his head. They had all been wonderful. And every word he sang had new meaning, new passion. For the first time in his life, he had a chance. Crowley and Balthazar were in constant contact, muttering between one another over the phone, and Castiel tried not to listen. Balt had told him to concentrate only on the shows, and that's what he wanted to do. To watch Balt sprawl on the couch in the suite with one broken wing, talking ceaselessly about contracts and work visas, and labels, it was making him crazy.

Three days, and two shows, had passed in a blur, before Castiel heard any news from Argentina. When it finally came, he stumbled to sit hard on the bed.

Sam took hold of his arms to steady him. “Angel, you're shaking. What is it?”

The whole bed quaked at the intensity of his trembling. He tried to look Sam in the eyes, but he couldn't focus clearly, not with all the shouting in his head.

A brutal hand grabbed him by the hair and pulled his face down. His head was swimming, the withdrawal chills wracking his whole body. He tried to be obedient, tried to do as he was meant to, for whoever this was. But he couldn't breathe. The hand jerked him mercilessly, and whoever it belonged to-whoever he belonged to-didn't care that he hurt. Was this Michael's client or Bart’s? It didn't matter. It wasn't Raphael. He knew Raphael by smell and voice, by his cruel, cold temper. And if it were Raphael, he would have thrown him to the floor in disgust by now.

“Please,” he moaned. “Please, I can't...I can't breathe!”

“You're all right,” a strangely kind voice told him.

It was stupid to beg. He hated himself for it. But his strength was entirely gone, spent on the horrible shaking and wanting. “Please just let me breathe…”

“Cas? You need to talk to me. I want to help you, but you need to tell me how.”

An impossible laugh came bubbling up his throat, until it burst out in a hysterical sob. “You don't want to help me,” he spat. “You're helping yourself.”

“Cas, I need you to try speaking in English. Can you do that?”

Confusion flooded his mind, and he blinked hard. “To sing?”

“There we go. No, angel, not to sing. To talk to me.”

The chills began to subside, but his bitter confusion refused to release him. “I can give only what I have,” he muttered. “And everything I have belong to Raphael Suarez. Or-or Michael. Please, I don't know. Tell me what I am to say. I don't mean to defy. I cannot help. I’m so sorry. I don't know who I belong to today…”

Very slowly, he realized that the man was not pulling at his hair. He was holding him. And he wasn't forcing his service. He was protecting him. The chills were a memory. They weren't real, not anymore. He wasn't back in Rosario with Michael, not Buenos Aires with Bartholomew or Raphael.

“Then...then who do I belong to?” he whispered in his native language. He shoved through the fog of his mind, the aching pain behind his eyes, to see who held him.

His heart shattered immediately as terror overtook him.

“Sam.”

The kind eyes were full of heartbreak. “Cas, please. Tell me how to help you. Please, can you try to speak English?”

He nodded, but it was weak, and he swayed until Sam steadied him. “I'm so sorry. Sam, I'm sorry. I don't know what is so wrong with me. I have so much cold! Why I am so cold?”

“I don't know, my love. What's going on? You hung up with Balt; then you just seemed to collapse. What's wrong?”

His breath came too shallowly. “I'm so sorry, Sam. You do too much. Is not your job.”

Sam frowned at him. “My...my job? Cas, first of all, if my client is having what looks like a PTSD episode, it's absolutely my job to take care of him. And secondly? This isn't a job to me! Not since minute one was this just a job. So don't bother telling me what's part of my job description, because I don't care. And third? You have zero point of reference about what a security detail is supposed to be, and worse, you have no clue how to be loved!”

Castiel felt the stab directly in his crushed heart. He sucked in a breath, and sobbed it out. “Sam.”

But his lover was shaking his head in frustration. “You have to trust me because you don't know. Okay? You write about it, and you sing about it, but you've got no clue. So you need to trust me. I'm right to love you, Castiel! I know I am. So let me do it! Tell me what's hurting so I can help you! If you're hurt and afraid, I have to help you. That's-” He gulped in a whimper. “Dammit, that's my job!”

“You cannot be for loving me, Sam! I'm broke!” he cried out. “I was broke years before I know you. There is no put this back together!” He gestured to himself in disgust. “Is filth, is trash. Is pig. Broke, pathetic pig.” Tears cascaded down his cheeks. “Puto,” he spat. “Whore. Now Jefe is dead. And at last I am nothing. Spiteful whore. You love me for my words? I kill Raphael with my words! I murder Michael! Bart is arrest! Men kill men because I whisper to them in spite. One spiteful pig is enough for to start a war.”

“Okay,” Sam rushed. “Okay. Did you say Raphael is dead?”

“For why? For one unhappy puto? Raphael raid Bartholomew. Bart have Michael to be kill in prison. All for a puto who cannot play role is give to him!”

Sam was staring at him now. “But, Cas...This is it! This is your chance!”

“I am never alone, Sam! Always one or another is owning me. What I am to do without them?”

His lover's eyes hardened. “They raped you, Cas.”

He flinched.

“They poisoned you, and they raped you, and they made you think you failed your father. You have the right to defend yourself, Castiel. You did what you had to do. And in the end, if they're dead or facing prison, they did it to themselves and one another. They don't deserve your loyalty or your guilt. They're monsters, and they use people like game pieces in their own private wars. You didn't kill them. You saved yourself. And I'm proud of you for it. You got yourself free, Cas. I don't care if there are pieces of paper out there that say you owe something. You don't. You belong to no one, Castiel Angeles.”

Proud. He knew that word. It was one of his favorites…

Sam wrapped his arms around him tightly, and Castiel lay his head against the strong chest. “Are you all right?”

“I am afraid.”

He sighed. “That's okay. You're going to be okay. Cas? How old were you when Michael first…”

He closed his eyes, and let the tears squeeze out. “Not old,” he whispered. “Not old enough. And some days I am thinking I never grew to be older. You know? I am still confused boy. Still I do as told. Still I believe promise of any kind man. Still I know nothing but to sing for supper.”

It seemed that Sam was suddenly beginning to understand. “Your whole life has been performing.”

He nodded. “I love singing, Sam. Love to play and write by guitar. Love. But at end of night, I am not permit to pack my own bag. I cannot go out to city. If Raphael know of you, that I enjoy you in my bed, he...he punish. I am trap. I may only go from room so to perform. Just as with Michael. Only for to please Michael’s clients, to bring him money. Then I am to go to my room for to burn my veins and sleep till it is the next time I am wanted.”

Sam began to stroke his hair, and Castiel wondered how he could have thought even for a moment that Sam was pulling it instead. “Okay. Okay, so how do we help you now? Is there anyone back home who will cause trouble for you now?”

It was amazing, unthinkable. But he shook his head. “No one can remember me. They know only that I am for singing. They cannot know I am belonging to Raphael Suarez. If I am staying out of Buenos Aires, no one know I am puto of Raphael.”

“Cas, I'll help you, okay? And-and so will Balt and even my brother. Whatever you need. And I'll teach you to be on your own. I promise. Just like with the bag. I won't let you struggle, but I won't do it all for you. I'll teach you. And you make the decisions. Okay?”

Castiel began to smile through his tears. Relief flooded through him. He could do this. He could live a life that wasn't sick and broken. He could do this. “I fall for you,” he murmured softly. “I dream to fly for so many years. Now I fall for you. Cowboy, I am older than you. But I am child too. You teach me. I trust you. Dios ayúdame. I trust you.”

***

“Does the man even realize what he's worth?”

Balt smiled sadly. “Not even a little.” He knew what Crowley meant. But he also knew Castiel had no idea how valuable he truly was.

“His Argentinian boyfriend has been snorting all his profits for years,” the lawyer snarled. “These books are truly messed up!”

“Can you fix it?”

Crowley scoffed. “Who are you talking to? This Raphael bastard is good. But I'm Crowley. I'll have Angeles detangled from all entities in South America. Kid has no real estate? Nothing physical?”

“Nothing,” Balt confirmed. “But no debt either.”

“Simple, then. If this is truly everything, I'll have every thread pulled in a few days. With a little luck, he won't unravel, and Pinocchio will be free of his strings. By week’s end, he’ll be a real boy.”

Balt smiled. “You're still the best, Crowley.”

“And the most expensive. Don't forget that.”

“You do what you say you can, get this man free of any ties, it'll be worth every pence.”

“Glad to hear it. By the by, I'll be sending you my notification of rate increase.”

“Naturally,” he sighed.

“Say hello to Pinocchio for me, darling.”

Balt smiled to himself.


	17. Title of the Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The title of the song.  
> Naïve expression of love.  
> Reluctance to accept  
> that you are gone.  
> Request to turn back time  
> And rectify my wrongs.  
> Repetition of  
> The title of the song."  
> -DaVinci's Notebook

Taking Castiel shopping for groceries was the most exhausting endeavor in Sam's day to day life. The man was still completely impossible, and completely adorable. 

“Maracuyá is better!” he was insisting as they hauled their far-too-many bags in from the car.

“Cas, you cannot live on passion fruit juice! We got you some, but the sugar alone-”

“Is good sugar! Not bad sugar! Dean say there is difference!" 

Sam rolled his eyes as he let them into the house. “Dean is hardly the expert on healthy living. He has you convinced ketchup is a vegetable.”

“Is made from tomato, no?”

“And high fructose corn syrup.”

Castiel dropped his bags on the breakfast table, and threw his hands up. “Corn! Is vegetable!”

“Yeah. High fructose. Syrup. Sugar. Just because it's made from corn-”

“Sucrose is sugar.”

Sam began picking through their bags. “So is fructose.”

“Why do Americans need so many words for sugar?”

He laughed. “It's a chemical…” He glanced at Castiel's wide blue eyes. “Because we eat so much of it,” he relented.

“Ah.” Castiel sat at the table. 

Sam smiled to himself. After weeks of being on their own, Castiel was still learning. “Come on,” he coaxed. “Help me put these away."

His lover looked startled. “Oh. I apologize.” He popped up to grab several items to place randomly into the pantry.

The younger man chuckled. Another day, he might have gently corrected the lack of organizational logic. But he let it go. Castiel was an apt student, but Sam didn't like to frustrate him if he could help it. He would just go behind him and take the dried fruit out of the refrigerator later, when Castiel wasn't looking. That lesson could wait for another day. 

“Sam, you are certain you cannot come to Phoenix?”

He turned to find those unfairly intense eyes staring up at him. “Cas, you know I want to. But Charlie and Dorothy are only going to get married once. I promised I would help her do the heavy lifting.”

Castiel squinted at him. “Heavy lift...Sam, they are envelope and flowers. It will not be so heavy.”

“Not literally, Cas. Just doing the running around stuff. Getting this ready. You know. The real work. Then you and Dean swoop in the weekend of the main event, and you're the heroes.”

“Because I will sing and he will give away.”

Castiel's use of future tense was improving gradually, and Sam was impressed, especially since most of the musician’s focus was on tearing into a carton of passion fruit juice.

“You're going to destroy that.” 

He earned himself a frown. “I will not! I learned how!”

Sam waited patiently for the carton to rip down the wrong side. He smirked. 

Castiel glowered at it as though the container had betrayed his trust. “Is weak! This! This is why we use bottle! Carton is unpredictable!”

His lover was kind enough not to point out that he had just predicted that very thing. “Okay. Look, I'll show you again next time you go to open one. I'll put this in a pitcher for now.”

“What is pincher?” 

“Pitcher, Cas. It's-I'll show you.” 

Domestic life with Castiel Angeles was exasperating and exhilarating. Sam had lived with Dean most of his life, then Charlie for about a year. Other than that, he was unaccustomed to sharing space, unless it was for a security detail. It was taking some adjustment for both of them. But it was all a wonderful adventure, and Sam had never been so content. 

Charlie had become engaged months ago, and Sam knew he needed to look for a new place. Castiel and Balthazar had talked late into the night, and in the morning, their lawyer had purchased for them a house in rural Kansas. It had shocked Castiel that he could afford such a thing, which had prompted another late night discussion, leaving him stunned and a little shaken. Even weeks later, Castiel was still pointing at jars of honey in the grocery and asking Sam if he could afford to buy it, since it wasn't on the list.

He sighed happily as Castiel began to hum to himself. “So what's the playlist for Phoenix?”

Castiel looked up. “Most of the same. The fans, they say they want new, but really, they are happiest when they sing too.”

“But…” He tried not to sound hopeful. “But is there anything new? At all?” 

“Maybe I do a little guitar solo. A bit of western country song.”

He knew he was being teased, but he couldn't help getting excited. He bit down his grin. “Yeah? Like…like what? Something you've shown me?” 

Castiel shrugged. “Maybe something you do not yet know.”

His heart was racing now. “Cas, please! You've been teasing out a melody for three weeks. It's making me crazy, every time you start to hum. You show me everything. Why won't you show me this new one? And now you're going to play it in Phoenix just to punish me for not coming to one show? I've been to every other one in the tour!”

His lover turned on him and stabbed him in the chest with his finger. “Ah! But you have not!”

“What are you talking about? I've been-”

“No. Protector Sam is at shows! My Sam, he is not there! At show, he is serious and cannot hear my song. My Sam is not hearing my song when he is for protecting. So this time, Dean is protector. Sam watch online, and then he hear new song.”

Sam stared at him. “You-you think I can't pay attention-” 

“Not as protector, no. My reader is not same man as my protector. You are good protector, Sam. But I want that you listen to this song first as my Sam, mi amor.”

He wanted to argue, but he wanted more to have his way. “At least tell me what the song is about!”

Castiel smiled. “Title is Cowboys and Angels.”

Immediately, Sam's face began to heat with pleasure. “You wrote it for me.”

“For us. Is our song. All for my strong cowboy and his forever angel.”

Sam thought he had fallen as hard as he was going to fall. But in that moment, he felt a physical pull on his heart, like never before. He placed his hand on Castiel's cheek, and didn't know what else to do.

And in that moment, Castiel became the protector, taking Sam in his arms and holding him against his shoulder. He led him to their couch, and before Sam knew it, he was curled up with his head on Castiel's lap, with the musician’s hand stroking through his hair. He was entirely overwhelmed by the way Castiel loved him, and he suddenly realized that for the first time, it had nothing at all to do with who Castiel was and everything to do with how Castiel was. Maybe it was because Castiel was finally allowing himself to love Sam with all his heart, with hope and optimism that it could last, that it was something they both wanted and deserved. Whatever it was, Sam felt it everywhere. 

When Castiel began to sing, it was very quiet. Sam became entirely still so as not to miss a single syllable.

 

 _It isn't hard at all to see_  
I'm no angel, believe me,  
But watch me fight my way through hell,  
My soul for you I swear to sell.  
My wings will burn but you can tell,  
It's all for love of you I fell.

_It isn't hard at all to see,_  
My cowboy is in love with me.  
And I may never quite know why.  
His love gives me faith when I cry,  
Grounds me when I want to fly,  
Resurrects me each time I die.

 

 _Angels are made for flying_  
And I spent my whole life trying.  
Loving a cowboy let me see  
Flying isn't what it seems to be.  
I'm no angel, believe me.  
Broken wings, and yet I'm free.

_Take my heart; I’ll give you my throat._  
Take every song I ever wrote.  
Tear feathers from my bleeding back,  
Bend every bone till you feel it crack.  
Burn out my eyes, turn my world black.  
I'll never mourn for what I lack.

_And it's all because I can see_  
My cowboy is in love with me.  
I don't think I'll ever know why.  
His love gives me faith when I cry.  
Cowboy revives me with his sigh,  
Resurrects me each time I die.

_Cowboys aren't meant to be still._  
They ride free when they get their fill.  
But this angel will hold on tight.  
When I pray now, it isn't for flight,  
I'd sell my soul to have the right  
To hold my cowboy safe at night.

_Take my heart; I’ll give you my throat._  
Take every song I ever wrote.  
Tear feathers from my bleeding back,  
Bend every bone till you feel it crack.  
Burn out my eyes, turn my world black.  
I'll never mourn for what I lack.

Castiel was silent for a long time before he sighed at last. “Is not bad puppy, no? Melody is easy. I work on grammar for many days.”

How did he do that with his voice? Sam let his tears fall onto the musician's lap. “You were going to make me listen to that online for the first time?”

He laughed and brushed his fingertips over Sam's tears. “Is better with guitar.”

And finally Sam laughed too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cookies, angels, cowboys or comments-any of these will keep me writing. ;)
> 
> ~Posing


End file.
